Knight Rider: The Beginning
by KITT40146
Summary: This is the story of the men behind the Knight Rider; a story of ingenuity and innovation, power and greed, love and deceit, an enduring friendship, and the lasting legacy of hope and heroes in a world losing faith that it only takes one man to make a difference. Chapter 19 posted.
1. Chapter 1

_Note from the author: First of all, I do not own any of the Knight Rider characters, and I don't intend to make any money off of them. This is just some fanfic for people to enjoy. This story will look familiar to some of you. I was working on it over a year ago and had to let it go for an extended time due to other things happening in my life. Now that everything has settled, I'm back to writing. I'll be posting the chapters once a week, and this time, I'm going to finish this story! Please feel free to critique and review. I do take suggestions seriously, as it helps to improve my writing and the story itself. Thank you in advance to those who do. ~KITT40146_

December 8, 1941

"Anna, David, Joe, come on! We're gonna be late as it is!" Wilton Knight called down the narrow hallway. He looked impatiently at the clock on the wall and stifled a groan.

Doors slammed and feet pounded the worn, stained carpet as three children appeared in the living/dining room. It was fairly easy to tell that the three were related. All had inherited the same dark brown hair and brown eyes from Peter Knight, the patriarch of the Knight family. Wilton was the odd-one-out, having inherited his fairer features such as his light brown hair and blue eyes from his mother. Only his tallness hinted that he was his father's son. Wilton, now eighteen, preceded the eldest, David, by five years. Then followed Joe, who was ten, and Anna, the baby of the family, who was five. Seeing her eldest brother, she ran for him and jumped into his open arms. She sat in the crook of his arm, staring intently at her other two brothers from her preferred perch.

"Would it kill you to get up five minutes earlier?" Wilton scolded the two as he ushered them out the door, handing them their books as they went. He paused to lock the door as he did every morning, and, as he did every morning, wondered why he bothered. It was not as if the Knights had anything of value. In fact, few people did during this miserable Depression. He had read accounts of people who had lost millions, but his family had actually lost very little. They hadn't had much to lose in the first place. His father's company had been forced out of business twelve years earlier, and his father had been one of thirty people to lose their jobs.

"Why would we wanna get to school any earlier than we have to?" David reasoned.

"Yeah," Joe said. "You're the lucky one, Will. You got to drop out!"

"It's not as great as it sounds," Wilton said, shaking his head and leading the two boys down the squeaky staircase until they reached the bottom floor four floors later. While Peter Knight did his best to support his family by doing whatever odd jobs he could find and his mother worked tirelessly as a housemaid for one of the lucky upper-class who had not lost their fortune on Wall-Street, it was still not enough to make ends meet. Wilton had graduated top of his high school class, but there was no way that he could go to college, and, as much as it hurt him, he accepted that fact. Instead, he had tried to find a legal job, but since there were none to be had, he risked jail to help transport contraband into Canada_**.**_ It was wrong, and it was dangerous, but it kept his family off the streets. Besides, in Chicago, it often paid better than the legitimate jobs.

He ignored his brothers' chatter and looked above him. Strung from one window to the other were crisscrossing ropes, displaying yesterday's wash. Ten hours from now, when he returned home, he knew that there would be different laundry, but he would never have a clear view of the sky. It was a pity, given the blue, cloudless sky. What he wouldn't give to move away from the crowded to city into the open countryside. If he had enough money…A biting wind drew him back from his thoughts, and he hugged his sister closer. He saw his brothers shiver and move behind him in an effort to use him to block the wind. Their threadbare clothing was a poor match for the infamous winters of Chicago. Someday, he vowed, he and his family would never know poverty again. Never.

Stopping in front of the school grounds, he turned over the care of the five-year-old to David and paused just long enough to watch them safely enter the building. It was inconvenient to have to take his brothers and sister to school week after week, but the neighborhood was too dangerous to allow them to go by themselves, not to mention the fact that David and Joe would probably take advantage and play hooky. Another gust of wind chilled him, and he shoved his hands in his pockets as he bravely turned into the rushing air and continued onward. With a little over two weeks left until Christmas, winter had just begun, and he had already grown tired of the cold.

"United States attacked! Read all about it! Japan bombs Pearl Harbor!" a teenage, freckle-faced boy called, holding up a newspaper with the shocking headline. "Hey, wanna buy a paper?" he asked Wilton as he passed.

Wilton, who had been caught up in trying to brace himself against the cold, looked at him, startled. "What?"

"Wanna buy a paper?" the boy asked again, slightly annoyed at having to repeat himself.

His eyes naturally wandered to the paper's bold headline. His eyes widened. "The U.S. was attacked? When? By whom?"

"Where have you been?" he asked, surprise replacing annoyance. "It's been all over the radio! Japan bombed Hawaii yesterday! We're in the war!"

Stunned, he snatched the paper from the boy's hand and scanned the article.

"Hey, that's five cents!" the boy protested.

"That's okay, I only wanted to see that article," Wilton said and handed the paper back.

"If everyone read the article without paying, I'd be out of a job!" the paperboy complained as the other walked away, his complaint carried in the opposite direction by the wind. Irked, he resumed his call. "U.S. attacked! Japan bombs Pearl Harbor! Read all about it! Five cents!"

Wilton was stunned. The United States attacked? What had the U.S. done to Japan to make them so angry as to bomb the mighty U.S. Fleet? He hadn't even known that the navy could suffer such destruction! Anger rose within him as he remembered the quickly rising death tally. Not all of those deaths had been soldiers. Innocent civilians had also been caught in the midst of the slaughter. How many families would be notified that they would never see their loved ones again? He picked up his pace as the wind increased in ferocity. He pulled the worn cap over his eyes and held onto it with his hand to keep it from being blown away. Bending forward, he fought the powerful gusts.

"Watch it!" a male voice protested when Wilton plowed into a muscular body. The man whirled around and stared at him with such irritation that Wilton stumbled backwards.

"Sorry," Wilton hastily apologized, sidestepping to get around the other. It was then that he realized he was at the end of a long line. "What's going on?"

"We're joinin' up," the one in front of Wilton explained, his irritation subsiding. "I'm going to be a pilot!"

"A pilot?"

"It's the only way to go," the stranger continued, his green eyes lighting up at the thought. His clothes were threadbare, and multiple patches had been hastily sewed to allow the garments to survive yet another generation of wearers. A brown scarf was wrapped around his nose and mouth, concealing the rest of his appearance and muffling his voice. "And to go where the action is. I hope I'm stationed in the Pacific. I wouldn't mind putting a bullet through the brain of the Jap that killed my brother!" he said vengefully.

"Your brother was in Hawaii?" Wilton deduced, stepping forward when the line crept closer to the small building.

The man nodded, his eyes clouding for the briefest of instants. Then his guard quickly rose back into place. "He was on the Arizona when she was attacked. They said he had a chance to escape, but he stayed to man one of the guns." He paused, and then said proudly, "They said he died a hero."

"I'm sorry about your brother," Wilton said sincerely.

"Thanks," he said. He extended his hand. "By the way, my name's Todd. Todd Madison."

"Wilton Knight," he said and grasped the offered hand firmly.

"So what do you wanna do?"

"Huh?"

"Infantry, tanks, planes…what do you wanna do?"

"I, uh, hadn't thought about it." Wilton looked across the long line. He was angry at what had happened to his country, but was he mad enough to join up? What about his family? What would become of them without his support?

"Where are you going?" Todd asked when Wilton started to step out of line.

"I can't join," he said.

"What, you 4-F or something?"

He shook his head. "There's too many people depending on me. I can't just go off and leave them."

"I had the same thoughts, but you know what? They're really better off without you. My family is. I mean, it's one less mouth to feed, and I'm sending my pay home."

"You can do that?"

"It's what the Sergeant told me. Plus, you've got a little time to get things in order before you have to go."

"How much do they pay?"

He shrugged. "Enough, I guess. Course, the higher your rank, the more you're paid, and, I heard that you get extra for being in combat zones."

Wilton grew excited. In joining the military, he would no longer have to help transport stolen goods, meaning that he no longer needed to fear the police. It was a chance to get out of Chicago and see the world, while at the same time defending the homeland he loved.

"Name?" the recruiting officer asked briskly.

"Wilton Knight," he answered and then added determinedly, "I want to be a pilot."

Large snowflakes fell on the roads, splattering as they hit the concrete and asphalt. Slowly, the white fluff began to accumulate, and layer by layer, the mass grew, taking over the roads, the sidewalks, the buildings, and the shoulders and hats of the people foolish enough to be out in the chilly weather. The overcast sky seemed appropriate for the mood at the bus station. Sadness hung particularly heavy over the six gathered on the platform.

"I wish you wouldn't leave," Susan Knight said dismally as she looked up at her son. She was a petite woman, but there was nothing weak about her small frame. Her hair was pulled back into a low bun, the only part of her hair uncovered by the hat that she wore.

"Someone has to protect you guys against the Japs and Krauts," Wilton said and hugged her tightly. He released her and stooped in front of David, his heavy uniform coat reaching the ground. "You're now the oldest, so you take good care of your brother and sister, and if I hear of you skipping school just once, I will personally come back and blister your bottom. Understand?"

David nodded, and then hugged his brother.

"Do I _have_ to listen to David?" Joe whined.

"Yes," Wilton said, moving to his other brother. "And do everything Mom and Pop tell you too."

"Or what?" Joe bravely dared.

Wilton frowned and looked at him severely.

Joe ducked his head. "Okay," he said obediently.

Wilton smiled and hugged him as well.

Anna sniffed.

"Hey, what's this? Tears?" Wilton asked and lifted Anna into his arms.

"Please don't go, Will!" Anna begged, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and burying her head into his neck as she sobbed.

"C'mon, Anna, don't cry," he soothed, patting her back. "It's not like I'm going to be gone forever, and we can write each other letters."

"I can't write!" she sobbed.

"I'm sure David or Joe would be happy to help you, wouldn't you, fellas?" he asked, eyeing the two.

"Uh, yeah, sure," they agreed.

"See? So you can tell them what you want in the letter, and they'll write it, and they'll read the letters to you that I send," he said.

Her crying subsided into hiccups as she pushed herself upright. He wiped her eyes with his handkerchief. "Why can't you stay here?" she asked.

"I have to fight the bad guys," he answered patiently. "They've done some bad things, and they have to be punished."

"Are you going to make them sit in the corner?"

The others laughed lightly, and he grinned. "Well, not quite, but something like that." He hugged her again and handed her to his mother. Turning to his father, he extended his hand. His father took it and pulled him into a brief hug. "Bye, Pop," he said.

Still grasping his hand, his father looked into his eyes. "I've always been proud of you, Will. Don't try and do something foolhardy. You don't need a medal on your chest to make me prouder. I couldn't be any prouder than I am now seeing you in that uniform."

Wilton swallowed hard. "Thanks, Pop," he said, his voice husky. Seeing his bus approach, he grabbed his duffle bag and swung it over his right shoulder. "Well, I guess this is it," he said to his family.

"Write often," his mother said.

"I will," he promised.

The brakes hissed as the bus stopped behind him, and he looked up at the passenger windows. It had obviously made previous stops, because there were already other soldiers sitting in some of the seats. With one last look at his family, he boarded the vehicle and chose a seat facing the platform so that he could see them. He waved, and they returned it. The bus rocked as others filed onboard, and, all too soon, the platform began to move away and grow smaller. He watched until he could no longer see them before he finally turned in his seat and rested his head against the back. It had been an early morning for him, and all he wanted to do was sleep before they arrived at their destination.

"Hey, Wilton!" a voice said as someone jarred the back of his seat with their foot.

Wilton sat straight up and turned in his seat to see who was behind him. He recognized the voice, but, in seeing the face, his mind became blank. "And you are…?"

"Don't you remember?" he asked, not the least bit put off. "It's me! Todd!"

"Todd?" Wilton studied the other. He recognized the green eyes, but the scarf had hidden the rest of his face from view the other day. His features were well-proportioned and came to sharp, defining edges that women found attractive. His black hair was clipped short, but not short enough to keep the natural wave from showing. There was no doubt that Todd was a ladies' man. "Are you training to be a pilot too?"

"Yeah, though I barely passed the primary exams. Man, what a hard test!"

Wilton decided not to mention that he had found the test particularly easy. "I heard that we only spend two months training before they ship us out."

"I heard that too. I ain't worried. It'll be a piece of cake."

"You've flown before?"

"Well, no," he admitted, "but how hard can it be? No worse than driving a car."

Wilton nodded. He had a point. "Where do you think they'll send us after training?"

He shrugged. "Overseas, that's all I know. I hope it's the Pacific, but I heard that they're shipping a lot of guys over to Europe too. I guess I really can't complain where they send us, so long as they put us where the action is. So, was that your family?"

"Family?" Wilton asked, confused by the sudden turn of subject.

"Back there at the station."

"Oh. Yeah, they were. They came to see me off."

"Guess it must be nice to have a family that cares about you. My ol' man's still sleeping it off." A look of resentment crossed his features but was quickly hidden. "You the oldest?"

"Uh-huh. Two younger brothers and a sister. She's the charmer," he said and proceeded to describe his family as Todd listened. Their conversation continued through the rest of the bus trip, and by nightfall when they reached their barracks, a strong friendship had formed between the two.

The bunks weren't particularly comfortable, but Wilton was used to it. He quickly stowed his gear in a footlocker at the edge of his bed while Todd claimed the bed to Wilton's right. Well, that is, after the former owner lost it to Todd in a game of high-card. The trainees had been warned that morning would come early, and lights were out at precisely ten o'clock.

Yet, before he could sleep, there was still one thing he needed to do. Pushing the covers away, he crawled to the edge of his bed, trying not to wake the others. His jacket lay across the trunk, and he turned it over and dug into its pockets. Feeling the smooth, cool texture, his hand grasped the folded paper and pulled it out. A small window above him allowed the soft glow of the moonlight to stream into the building, and it provided just enough brightness for him to distinguish the scrawl he recognized as his father's handwriting.

_Dear Son,_

_ By the time you read this, you will be far away from home. Everything will be a new experience for you as you've never had the opportunity to travel. Some of it will be exciting, some will be frightening, but I am confident that no matter what experiences you encounter, you will not turn your back, but instead, embrace them. _

_You are no longer a boy, Will. Your life is your own. Enjoy every day that you are given because you only have one chance to live it. Be careful in the decisions you make because you never know how they will affect you or others later on. It only takes one man, Will. __One man can make a difference.__ I know that I have said that many times, and I am sure that you still do not believe me. However, it is a lesson that you will learn in time. _

_Stay safe, Will. _

_ Your father,_

_ Peter Knight_

The words blurred, and Wilton hurriedly wiped his eyes before anyone noticed. Folding the letter, he returned it to his jacket and crawled beneath the covers. Closing his eyes, he remembered the sad farewell. He had made the right decision. Of that, he was certain, but it didn't stop the pain of loneliness welling up within his heart. Tired and exhausted from the day's journey, he finally drifted into a deep sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"God, what a hunk of junk," Todd said disgustedly as he strolled beside Wilton. Lined up facing the dirt runway were twenty-three P-47 Thunderbolts. Though the olive drab paint scheme attempted to hide the scars, there wasn't one plane that didn't show wear. Even without the bullet holes and patches, the Thunderbolt wasn't the sleekest fighter in existence.

Wilton sighed. "You've said that each and every time before we go up for the past four months. They're not gonna give us new planes just because you complain." He zipped up the heavy leather jacket over his tan jumpsuit. Even in April, the evenings in Britain were cold, although it had been over a month since it had snowed, and Wilton was extremely thankful for that.

"Hey, you never know," Todd said optimistically.

"How can you possibly be so happy when we're about to go on a _long_ night run into the heart of occupied territory?"

His grin broadened. "Because, when we get back, you and I are gonna go out on the town."

Wilton raised an eyebrow. "And just how is that gonna happen?"

"Will, Will, Will," he said, shaking his head and putting his hand over his heart. "I'm insulted! Surely you know by now I always have something up my sleeve."

"Like the two aces you usually keep up there for a poker game?"

Todd shushed him. "Hey, you wanna get me killed?" He grasped Wilton's shoulder and stopped him. Looking around him, he leaned in close. "I hit the jackpot this time. I got us two twenty-four hour passes!"

"I don't know…You didn't cheat, did you?"

Todd put on his best innocent face. "Of course not. So, you wanna go or not? Cause if you don't, I'm sure I could always find _someone_."

Wilton hesitated, and then said, "Okay. Count me in." He approached his plane and climbed into the cockpit. After completing the preflight checklist, he closed the canopy and started the engine. The props spun faster and faster, and he taxied the plane onto the runway. Looking behind him, he could see Todd following at a slight distance. His plane steadily increased in speed until it lifted off of the ground, aimed away from the setting sun. Todd quickly caught up, flying beside him at his right. Tonight was more of a mischief mission. A major bombing run had been scheduled for two nights later in southern France, and tonight, the two fighters were to attack the northern part in the hopes of drawing some of the planes away from the real target. It was a long shot, but Wilton didn't mind. If he could save someone else's life by drawing one more Nazi fighter away, then he would.

KRKRKRKRKR

The sun was now gone, but the sky still blazed with the fires of sunset, the colors reflecting off of the waters of the English Channel. It would have been more effective if he had the rest of his squadron, but the others needed to stay in England to help attack the German bombers. England was being pummeled every night, and no matter how much fire power the Allies put into the air, the Nazis continued to outnumber them. For the most part, the countryside was spared, but heaven help the cities, especially London. Night after night that city was bombed and civilians were killed, and chances were that this night would be no exception.

"Will! Twelve o'clock!" Todd's voice suddenly exclaimed over the radio.

Wilton looked directly ahead and his eyes widened. Approaching him dead-on was a Nazi fighter. The pilot must have realized that he had been seen because the guns on his wings erupted in fire. Grasping the stick with a death-grip, he slammed it towards him and sent the P-47 straight up. The engine protested and began to stall, forcing him to level off. From his view, he saw that the enemy plane had taken an interest in Todd. No matter what Todd tried, he couldn't shake the German. Diving, he fell in behind the enemy and squeezed the trigger. Bullets tore through the top of the plane as he passed over, and when he reached the engine, it exploded in a bright fireball. The enemy plane's nose turned straight down and spiraled at a frightening speed towards the earth, sending up yet another explosion on impact.

"Looks like I owe you one," Todd said, the gratefulness in his voice unhidden by the radio.

"I'd say we're even. You gave me the heads-up," he said, brushing him off. He reached up with his hand and rubbed his ear. He didn't so much feel it as hear it. It was a low, rumbling sound, very faint at first, but quickly increasing in volume. "Todd…" he said unsurely as he squinted into the darkness.

"You hear it too?" he asked, not bothering with radio procedure. After all, it was just the two of them. "I thought I had gone nuts."  
"You _are_ nuts, but that's not the point. That's not…" His voice trailed away as several fighters appeared, the outlines caught by the waning moon. He didn't even have time to warn his friend before the bullets erupted from the other planes, tearing at the body of his plane as they searched for the vulnerable areas. Pulling up, he could see the enormous shapes of the bombers who were undoubtedly waiting to dump their load over England. Squadrons of fighters circled the massive birds, doing their best to ensure the safety of the less maneuverable planes. "Fox One to home base," he said into the radio, "We have located German bombers over Amiens traveling West-North-West! I repeat, German bombers over Amiens traveling West-North-West!"

"Roger that, Fox One," a voice that Wilton didn't recognize answered, the voice staticky from distance. "You are to return to base immediately. Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage."

"They won't let us _not_ engage!" he answered, jerking his plane to the left as an enemy fighter flew over him.

"Will, I'm in trouble here!" Todd exclaimed over the radio.

Trying to shake his own pursuers, Wilton was unable to find his friend and helplessly listened to the radio.

"Will! Will, I'm hit! I'm going down!" he said, his voice rising in panic.

"Get out of the plane! Bail out!" Wilton shouted into the radio, flinching as a stream of bullets came dangerously close to the cockpit. To his left, he could see the bright flames of his friend's P-47 as it spiraled toward the earth. Seeing a cloudbank, he accelerated his plane to top speed, trying hard to ignore the bullets that streaked across his wings. He no longer could see the moonlight, and the ground was obscured from his view. The constant ping-ping of the bullets striking the metal hull stopped, and he knew that he had lost the enemy planes. He swallowed hard as he remembered that he may have lost his friend too. Even if Todd had made it out safely, which he probably hadn't, there was still a danger that he would be captured. France was now in German hands. How could he possibly survive?

The cloud grew thinner until his plane was able to break free into the clear night sky. Realizing that he had become turned around in the mist, he circled the plane until he was traveling in the same direction as the bombers. The plane was becoming increasingly difficult to fly because of all the damage it had sustained, and he was forced to slow it down to a less than optimum speed. He had hoped to attack from the rear, but he wasn't certain if his craft would even return him back to England.

Fortunately, he hadn't been too far inland, and as he crossed the Channel, he could see the distant orange glow that he knew wasn't the sun. The engine began to sputter, and when he checked the fuel gage, he immediately deduced that one of the bullets had punctured his fuel line. He was still over water and descending quickly. He radioed his position and his situation, and held on tightly to the stick when the engine finally died. Land was approaching quickly, but the massive cliffs would prove a hazard if he could not keep his plane high enough. Sweat beaded his forehead as he struggled to keep the nose up. The plane continued downward despite his efforts. The cliffs were too high. He dare not ditch for fear of being slammed into the sharp boulders, but it wasn't too late to turn his plane back to sea. _What should he choose? Where should he go?_ He had only seconds to make his decision. _He had to choose! _Closer and closer the bluffs were approaching. What should he do? What should he –

KRKRKRKRKR

Wilton sat straight up in his bed, breathing hard. Shakily, he raised his hand and wiped his face. Instinctively, he looked to his right, and lowered his head in sadness when he remembered that Todd wasn't there. Whether he was dead or in enemy hands, Wilton didn't know, but he knew that as long as the uncertainty remained, so would the terrible nightmares. He eased himself back into bed, his body protesting against the movement as he recalled the rest of the night.

The landing had been rough. The body of the plane had cleared the cliffs, but his landing gear had not. With the wheels ripped off, he was forced into a belly landing, and the plane bounced several times before it finally skidded to a stop in the field. His training officer had once remarked that any landing he could walk away from was considered a good landing. If that was the only qualification, then Wilton had completed a good landing. However, the plane was permanently out of commission. The salvageable parts of the engine would be used as replacements in other planes, and the body, disfigured beyond repair, would be scrapped and turn up in other planes.

He "borrowed" a jeep that he happened upon in a small English town that he still didn't know the name of, and, after it ran out of gas, he walked the last five miles back to his base just outside of London. Shutting out the carnage and misery he had seen as he was forced to navigate through the city, he threw himself onto his bed and fell instantly asleep, but not before checking in with his superior officer to make sure someone knew that he was still alive and that Todd had not made it.

Not ready to face the loss of his friend, he stiffly rose out of his bed, and, realizing that he was still wearing his flight suit, didn't bother changing. Given the way he felt, he _dared_ anyone to mention his appearance to him, and the scowl on his face served as a powerful deterrent.

Excited shouts erupted around him, and he whirled to face the opposite direction as he watched those around him scatter for cover. His jaw hung open, and he stood rooted to the spot as he stared at the approaching enemy plane. The pilot must have been suicidal because the plane barely cleared the tops of the roofs as it soared over the base. Strangely, it never fired a shot even though Wilton was an easy target. It continued over the base and circled to line itself with the runway. The landing gear locked into place, and the plane steadily descended until its wheels touched the dirt, and it taxied to a stop as several men surrounded the plane. Having reached the conclusion that the Nazi was not only suicidal but extremely stupid, he stood at the back of the crowd, interested in the unfolding situation.

The crowd fell into silence as the canopy was pushed back and the pilot climbed onto the wing, causing a startled gasp. "HEY WILL!" Todd shouted and waved, jumping onto the ground.

Wilton did a double-take. He must have hit his head when he crash-landed the plane. It couldn't be Todd! He had seen his plane crash! He stared dumbfounded as his friend pushed his way though the crowd to him and grasped his shoulders. "T-Todd?" he stammered in disbelief.

"Course it's me! You didn't think I'd let the Krauts catch me, did you?"  
Wilton was at a loss for words. "How…You were flying a Kraut plane!"

He shrugged. "They left the keys in the ignition, so I thought I'd take it for a spin," he said, enjoying his friend's shock.

"Come on, Madison! You owe us an explanation!" someone from the crowd shouted and the others agreed.

"How did you manage to secure a German plane?" Wilton asked, finally finding his tongue. "I thought you were dead!"

"Dead?" He laughed. "I'm too lucky to die!" He climbed onto the wing of the plane and sat on it, facing the crowd. He had their undivided attention, and he intended to make the most of it. "When Wilton and I were flying over northern France last night, we ran right smack into the middle of a Kraut bomber formation. There were hundreds of bombers and at least half as many fighters, and every single one of 'em wanted a piece of me and Will. So we split up, trying to get out of there as fast as we could. I made that plane do things I know it wasn't designed to do, but they still caught me. The engine exploded into flames, and I parachuted out into the darkness, not knowing where I would land."

Wilton rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. He had almost forgotten how much his friend relished the spotlight. Still, he knew how to weave a story. Perhaps later, Wilton would be able to weave out the truth.

"I landed in a field in the middle of nowhere, and it was crawling with Krauts. I guess they must have seen me jump, but they weren't fast enough to get to me before I escaped. I started running and I kept running until I found a farmhouse. It was risky, but I took a chance and knocked on the door. Now, I couldn't speak French to save my life, but the uniform told the man enough, I guess, because he took me out to his barn, and what do you suppose I found in it?"

"A cow?" someone asked.

"That too," he said, not at all phased by the sarcasm. "It was a jeep."

"Well, where does the plane come in?" another asked impatiently.

"I'm getting to that," he said, motioning with his hands for them to be patient. "He tried to give me directions to somewhere, but I had no idea what he's saying. So, I took the jeep and started driving."

"In your uniform, on the open road?" another voice asked.

"Sure. Why not?" he asked with a shrug. "Anyway, I'm driving on this road going to who-knows-where, but the sun's coming up, so I turn onto a side road and abandon the jeep and run for the forest. On the other side of the forest is a small Nazi airfield, and not one of those planes is guarded. So I helped myself to one. Only problem was, the Krauts weren't too happy with that idea, and I almost didn't get off the ground. Then two other Kraut planes take off and chase me."

"What did you do then?" someone gasped.

He grinned. "I radioed for help, what else? It turns out there were a squadron of P-47s heading home and took a little detour to save my skin. I tell you, there was probably more than one person who looked twice at a squad of P-47s protecting a Kraut plane!"

The crowd laughed, but Wilton shook his head. Only Todd Madison would be lucky enough to happen upon a jeep, a plane, and flight of P-47s at just the right time. Todd jumped onto the ground as group followed him to the officer's club, but he stopped in front of Wilton. "It's good to see you made it back, Will," Todd said sincerely. "I thought maybe they had got you too."

Wilton smiled slightly. "I guess my luck's better than yours."

Todd laughed and clapped him on the back, guiding him towards the Officer's Club. "C'mon, everybody! Drinks are on Will!" he called.

Wilton frowned as the crowd cheered. Just when he was glad that his friend had returned safely, he was ready to throw him back to the Germans.


	3. Chapter 3

_December 19, 1944_

_Dear Family, _

_ I'm writing this letter now even though I know you probably won't get it until March or April. I hope they don't edit too much out. It tends to grow annoying. Well, it appears that I won't be home for the fourth Christmas in a row. The war keeps dragging out longer than everyone had thought at first. Hopefully I won't have to spend a fifth Christmas over here. Now that we've liberated France, all we have to do is conquer Germany. After retaking so much of Europe, taking one more country shouldn't be such a challenge, but it is. They're fighting us hard, but we're gaining ground. _

_ How is everyone? I heard that Dad found a job at a factory building planes. Who knows? Maybe I'm flying one of them. Look out, Pop. Everything that goes wrong with my plane, I'm blaming you for. (Ha-ha!) Are David and Joe behaving themselves? I know I had threatened them before I left, but I remember how their minds work. Anna's, what, nine now? She was so little when I left. I probably won't recognize her when I get home. _

_ I miss you all a lot, especially now, around Christmas. I can hardly wait until we're all together again. Take care._

_ Wilton Knight_

Wilton folded the letter carefully and sealed it in an envelope. Rising from his seat on the bed, he slipped on his jacket. He and the rest of his squadron would be flying across French/German border within the next twenty-four hours, and this would probably be the last chance he had to write his family for a long time. A highly important battle was about to be fought, of that he was certain. However, the upper echelon was keeping a tight lid on all information. They wouldn't even tell the pilots the exact destination until just before they were to leave.

The wind was biting, and he felt his cheeks turn numb from the incredible cold. Until that moment, he had been certain that no other place on earth could rival a Chicago winter, but he had been wrong.

"Will! Will!" Todd called breathlessly, running up to his friend. He pushed Wilton back into the barracks.

"What is it? You look like you've seen a ghost!" Wilton said, concerned by Todd's unusually dour expression.

"Sit down, Will," he said, catching his breath.

"How much do you owe this time?" Wilton sighed, crossing his arms.

"It has nothing to do with that." He pushed Wilton onto the bed and sat beside him. Pausing, he pulled out a letter. "I…I got this letter today. It's from a friend of mine back home. He lives about a block away from where you used to live."

"So?"

He swallowed and looked at Wilton. "It happened three months ago. I don't know why the Red Cross hasn't contacted you. God, Will, I'd give anything not to have to tell you this," he said, his voice shaky. "I wasn't going to, until I had proof, but I do."

"You're rambling," Wilton pointed out, wondering what had upset him so much as well as trying to force down his rising fear.

He took a deep breath. "There was a fire at your apartment building. The authorities say it was faulty wiring. You know how run down those buildings are in our neighborhood. Will…your family…they didn't…The fire was in the middle of the building, and the firefighters didn't get there until too late, and…" He pulled out an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Wilton. "I got a clipping from the newspaper about it...it was a really big article, and then there were the obituaries-" He paused when Wilton snatched the yellowed piece of newspaper from his hands. "I…I'm so sorry, Will. I would have given my life not to have to tell you this. I…Will? Where are you going?" he asked when Wilton rose from his seat and hurried back into the frigid air. Todd ran after him, stopping him with a hand on his elbow. "Maybe you should see the chaplain or something, Will."

"Let me go," he warned, his voice dangerously quiet. When Todd held firm, he jerked his arm out of the other's grasp and walked briskly to his airplane, now a P-51 Mustang. He jumped onto the plane's wing and climbed into the cockpit.

"Will, please don't do this. You're in no condition to fly."

"Get off," he growled when Todd jumped onto the wing.

"If you won't listen to reason, then I'm coming with you."

"I'll shoot you out of the air," he warned, his voice telling Todd that he would indeed carry out his threat. He closed the canopy and started the engine.

"WILL! WILL, LISTEN TO ME!" Todd shouted over the engine, but it was no use. When the plane began to move, Todd quickly jumped onto the ground and got out of the way. He watched the plane taxi to the runway and pause as the engine gained power. It started forward, rolling down the runway and gaining speed until it lifted off of the ground. "WILL!" he shouted again, waving desperately, but the plane roared past him and into the darkening sky.

Wilton didn't bother to check his instruments. He had been flying long enough that he could do it by feel. Even if he had been so inclined, his grief would have prevented his mind from processing the readings. His family was dead. If he had been there, perhaps he could have saved them, but he hadn't been there. He was thousands of miles away, trying to survive in a war against an enemy that he had been told threatened his family. Yet the enemy had been closer to home than he would ever have thought possible: a building neglected by a landlord who didn't even live in the complex. He visibly winced as his mind conjured horrible images of his family perishing. He only prayed that the smoke had gotten to them before…

He shook his head. No! He couldn't face that! He wouldn't! A sob escaped and he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. He was alone in the world with no family or home in which to return. Everything that had been precious to him had been in that apartment: his father and mother, David and Joe…and little Anna. His mind jumped back in time to the scene at the platform, when she begged him not to leave. She was so little, so innocent. A fresh wave of tears spilled down his cheeks, and his heart was so heavy that his chest physically hurt. Why couldn't it have been him instead of his family? He would have willingly traded places. Why? Why had this happened?

He had nothing left. There was nothing to return to, not even anything left to live for. He didn't even care if he made it back to base. Why should he? There would be no one to mourn his death. He gunned the engine, pushing it as fast as it would go. His apathy had combined with his sadness and anger to create a deadly form of recklessness. He wanted to fight, and he was going to find an opponent. He didn't care how big or small it may be. He was going to kill or be killed. Either way, it didn't matter to him.

The sun provided just enough light to tell him that he was coming dangerously close to enemy territory. That was fine by him. He'd go straight to Berlin if he had to, though he doubted it would be much longer before he found the enemy. He scanned the ground, looking for a viable target. A line of Nazi military trucks and armored vehicles was too enticing to pass. The convoy was well-defended, and it would normally take far more air support than Wilton's single-engine plane. Still, it was what he had, and he didn't hesitate to use it.

Circling the convoy, he lined up on the rear and dove, pounding the dirt with bullets as he came closer to the convoy. Anti-aircraft batteries fired into the air, trying hard to catch the plane, but they missed, some only by inches. Giving them a second chance and wanting another chance for himself, he approached again, this time from the opposite direction. All guns on his wings flashed white as they fired, but they were almost hidden by the encroaching black cloud of flak. Again and again he passed, skillfully dodging the fire and continually pummeling the convoy with bullets. As he made yet another pass, he flew the plane so low that they could have easily killed him with a pistol, but they weren't given the chance because his bullets unexpectedly tore through two of the five trucks' engines, causing them to explode. The fire traveled to the back of the vehicles, causing an explosion on a scale that Wilton had never seen. He scrambled to get his plane away from the fireball, circling at a much higher altitude to watch the destruction. Explosion upon explosion rippled through the convoy, obliterating the vehicles and those not fortunate enough to get out of its way.

Stifling his shock at what he'd done, he finally spoke into the radio. "Thunder Four to home base… you know that fuel shipment you've been worried about?…Well, you don't have to worry about it anymore."

KRKRKRKR

Captain Wilton Knight entered the Parisian low-lit bar and removed his hat, slipping it beneath his arm. He had received his commission just two days ago along with a weekend pass to anywhere he pleased. He would have received a medal, also, had it not been for the fact that he had taken the plane and left the base without permission. Still, the U.S. government could hardly punish a pilot that had single-handedly weakened the German defensive, bought the Allies more time, and saved numerous lives that would have been required to destroy the convoy. Instead, he had returned to base a hero, though he didn't feel like one. Stopping the shipment hadn't brought his family back, and it certainly hadn't healed the massive hole left within his heart. The only reason he had chosen Paris was because it was the easiest city to access enough alcohol to drink until he no longer could feel the pain.

Looking across the crowded room, he saw one last unoccupied seat, but it was across from a British infantryman. It was bad enough enlisted personnel and officers couldn't stand each other, but pairing an American officer and an English corporal was just asking for a fight. Strange how three days ago he was looking for a fight, and, now, he simply wanted to be left alone. Yet, it was Friday night, and the other bars would probably be just as crowded. He decided to take what he could get. Pushing his way through the people and dodging various pieces of furniture, he walked to the rear of the room and stopped before the empty seat. "Mind?" he asked over the loud, drunken voices.

The soldier didn't even look up, but he motioned with his hand for Wilton to sit. Pouring himself a generous portion of wine into the glass, the soldier lifted it to his mouth and gulped it down. When he returned the glass to the table, Wilton noticed immediately how young he was. He couldn't have been any older than seventeen or so, yet creases etched into his forehead from excessive frowning told Wilton that this one had seen his share of sorrow.

"Putting it away, aren't you?" Wilton asked.

"How much I drink is none of your bloody business," the other snapped, looking at Wilton with angry gray eyes. He ran a hand through his reddish-brown hair, trying to push away the stubborn strand that had fallen across his forehead.

Wilton held up his hands in surrender and then gestured to a waitress. "A bottle of the house wine for me, and bring him a bottle of whatever he's having."

She nodded and left.

The Englishman looked at him in surprise and then suspicion. "Why are you being so friendly?" he dared, his accented voice slightly slurred by the alcohol.

"Because I've seen that look before," Wilton said, pouring himself a glass of wine after the waitress returned with his order. He wasn't sure why, but he suddenly had a need to talk. "What memory are you trying to drink away?"

He emptied the rest of the first bottle into the glass and took a large gulp. "You Yanks are all alike, you know that?" he said angrily. "Think you can come over here, do as you please, and everyone's supposed to like you. Well, it doesn't work that way." He polished the off the rest of the liquid and uncapped the second bottle.

Wilton downed his glass, feeling the burn as the cheap wine hit his stomach. He poured himself another glass. "Whatever you say," he said with a shrug and drank the wine.

"Some help the Americans were," he continued, the alcohol removing his discretion. "Didn't do anything to stop the destruction of my country."

"We've pushed them back into Germany. I'd say we stopped it."

"It wasn't soon enough!" he said angrily, pounding his fist on the table so hard that the glasses clinked. "She still died!"

"She?" Wilton asked, confused.

"Laura," he said, as if it should have been obvious.

Suddenly, he began to understand. "She was killed in the Blitz?"

The Englishman nodded, his features saddening.

"I'm sorry," Wilton said sincerely.

"I'm sure you are," he said sarcastically, his words bitter. "What do you know of having your country blown to pieces night after night, or worrying constantly if your luck will run out and a bomb hit its target, or lose the one person…" his voice choked, and he took a large drink.

Wilton looked at his glass, swirling the wine in it. "My country was attacked, though not to the extent yours was," he said, his voice quiet, "but my friend still lost his brother."

"Your friend?" he asked incredulously. "You can't possibly understand what I'm going through just because it was your friend!"

"My family was killed three months ago," he said flatly, still looking at his drink.

The young Englishman looked up in surprise. When the other didn't volunteer anymore information, he pressed, "How?"

Wilton slowly returned the glass to the table. "A fire in the apartment building. They couldn't get out."

"And all of them…"

"I'm the only one left."

The other looked contrite. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Wilton brushed him off with a wave of his hand.

Silence descended upon the pair, neither one paying attention to the noise of merriment that was around them. It seemed as though the gaiety couldn't reach that little corner, kept away by the sullen mood that hung about it. Finally, unable to take any more, the Englishman broke the silence. "We were to be married."

Wilton looked at him, slightly surprised by the sudden information, but he quickly hid it. "You and Laura?" he asked.

"Her name was Laura Whittaker," he continued. He pulled out his wallet and opened it, showing Wilton a picture of a beautiful young woman. "She lived in a flat in London overlooking the Thames. How she loved the river! I had begged her to move to the country when the bombing started, but she told me that was her home and no German was going to drive her out." He looked sadly at the picture and returned the wallet to his pocket, but not before fumbling a few times with it. "I joined up the day I learned of her death. My only hope is that I killed the German that killed my Laura."

Todd's earlier words rang in Wilton's ears. How many other people had joined the war to avenge a loss? "Things had just started to turn around for my family," Wilton said. "My dad had gotten a job at a factory. It wasn't the best work, but it was steady. My brother, David, had wanted to drop out of school and join up – following in my footsteps, you know – but I talked him out of it. If he did, it wouldn't have been long before Joe followed suit, and I wanted them both to have an education. Now that the Depression's finally over, they'd need it. And Anna…Wait, I have a picture of them somewhere…" He pulled out his own wallet and retrieved a worn picture of his family. "This was taken several years ago. Anna was just a baby then, but it's all I have."

"A lovely family," he said, studying the black-and-white photograph. He handed it back to Wilton. "I'm truly sorry about your loss."

He nodded and carefully slipped the picture back into the wallet. "I don't believe I know your name…"

"Devon Miles," the Englishman said, extending his hand in the first gesture of friendship since Wilton had sat down.

"Wilton Knight," he said and shook the proffered hand. "It appears that both of us are left without a future after the war."

"Well, there is my family's farm, I suppose," he said unenthusiastically. "Though I'm not too fond of Argyle."

"Socks?"

Devon smiled slightly, probably for the first time in a long while. "No, it's a real place. I don't particularly care for farm life, though. No, that's not what I want to do with my life. It's an honest living, I suppose, and it's reliable, but there's no excitement. Just the same thing, day in and day out."

"What do you want to do then?"

He shook his head. "I used to know, but…that option was taken from me." He polished off the glass of wine.

Wilton was steadily making progress on his bottle, although not nearly as quickly as Miles on his. "I had some ideas for after the war. Since I've spent so much time around airplanes, I've been coming up with ways to improve their capabilities."

"They can fly. Isn' tha' enough?" His accent was becoming thicker, and the slurring made it difficult for Wilton to understand.

"Of course it's not enough!" Wilton said, shocked by the thought. "They need to go faster, and use fuel more efficiently, and be easier to handle. They must stand up to more abuse and stall less often. I've been working on drawings for a prototype that will revolutionize airplanes!"

"Americans…never shatishfied with wha' they got," Devon said, shaking his head. Seeing that his second bottle was empty, he helped himself to Wilton's, who was too excited about his ideas to notice.

"You can never be satisfied with what you have," he continued, "or progress would never occur! Suppose the Wright brothers had been satisfied with driving a car? Then where would we be? And planes aren't the only thing I've been thinking about. Have you heard about computers?"

Devon frowned, his sluggish brain trying to comprehend the new word. He shook his head. "Nope."

"They're incredible machines! I've only read about them once or twice, but they're amazing! Why, with the power that these machines possess…The possibilities are endless!"

Devon nodded, his eyes glazed. "Endless," he repeated and finished yet another glass. Suddenly, he sat up. "Say, ya know wha'?" he asked, his voice slurred almost beyond recognition. "I 'ave contacts, an' I could shell 'em…you're ideas."

"You could?" Wilton asked keeping the doubtfulness he felt from showing in his voice.

"Sure," he said, waving his hand. "Jus' look me up…after the war." He fumbled for a pen and scribbled something onto a wine-stained napkin, sliding it across the table to Wilton.

Wilton studied the handwriting. It was clumsy, but somewhat readable. "I'll keep that in mind," he said and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He looked at the other man, who was now slumped over the table. "Miles?" he asked, shaking the other's shoulder. Receiving no response, he paid the waitress and left, figuring that one of the Englishman's buddies would see that he was returned to base.

Donning his hat, Wilton stepped back into the cold night. He paused and looked back at the bar. He had not only opened up to a complete stranger, albeit drunk, but he had told him of the plans he had been designing. Odd, considering that Todd was the only other person he trusted enough to tell of their existence. The weight of his family's death still weighted heavily upon his heart, but in talking about his ideas, he no longer felt that there was nothing left for him. Every day would continue to take all the strength he had just to get through it, but he would.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he started briskly down the sidewalk. If they could survive the war, he would ask Todd to help him start a business. With his inventions and Todd's marketing skills, he knew that they would go far. Then, as soon as he secured a few patents… His hand found the napkin and crumpled it. Promises made while in a drunken stupor were not ones to take seriously, let alone be kept. He doubted the young soldier would even remember the encounter by the next morning. He considered throwing it away, but he changed his mind. It was an ingrained habit learned from his mother. She refused to throw away business cards, old addresses, envelopes, or any of the like, stating that she never knew when she might need to contact someone. He pictured his mother's frown at the thought of him even considering throwing away an address. He knew he would never need it, but he honored his mother's memory and kept it.


	4. Chapter 4

"Will! Hey, Will!" Todd said excitedly, rushing into the small office. He stopped when his foot landed on a large blueprint, and he slipped, nearly falling onto the floor. He caught himself on a chair, its seat buried beneath a tower of papers. "Good, grief, Will! It was safer in Germany than in this office!"

"If you wouldn't barrel in here like a banshee, then it wouldn't be so dangerous," Wilton said, not looking up from the blueprints on his desk. He frowned and made a note on the paper. "What did you want?"

Todd had long since grown used to Wilton's indifference when he was working on a project. It was as if he could be only one thing at a time, and at the moment, he was an inventor. "Congratulate me."

This time Wilton looked at him. "Why?"

"Because, my friend, I have just gotten you your very first patent-pending!"

He frowned. "Is that good?"

"Good? It's great! It means that you and I are as good as owning the rights to the plans to the electro-whatcha-ma-call-it, and we can market it!"

"Electromagnetic Repulsion Unit?" he asked doubtfully. "I highly doubt that the general public would be interested in a mild force field."

"It's not the general public I was talking about. I'm thinking bigger that than. I'm talking government contracts! We could make millions!"

Wilton paused in thought. "It would make traversing a mine fields safer." He shook his head. "I don't know, Todd. The technology could be dangerous."

"What could possibly be dangerous about something that _repels_?"

"It puts out radiation," he pointed out. "As it is, it's safe, but someone would try to make it more powerful, and that's where the problems come in."

"How do you know?" he countered.

"Because I designed it, that's why."

"Then it will be their problem, not ours. Will, listen to me," he said, resting his hands on the desk and leaning forward. "We've been in business for almost a year, and we're barely scraping by. This is our big break! If we can sell this, we'll not only make a fortune but make a name for ourselves!"

Wilton leaned back in his chair and looked at his friend. "You should have consulted me before you tried to patent it," he admonished. He motioned around the room, "There's lots of inventions in here that could be marketed _safely_. The plans for the ERU haven't even been tested! How can I sell something without a guarantee that it will work?"

"Will, Will, Will," he sighed, shaking his head. He lifted the large of stack of papers from the chair and sat it on the floor so that he could sit. "When we went into this, we had an agreement. You were the scientist and I was the businessman. Have I led you wrong yet?"

"Yes."

He frowned. "Well, that could have happened to anybody. How was I supposed to know that the sign for okay was really an offence in other cultures? But my point is, I see the potential. I know we can sell this, and once we've sold it, it's no longer our problem. I mean, this is the government. They experiment with dangerous stuff all the time! Surely than can handle a small force field!"  
"It's not _just_ a small force field," Wilton countered stubbornly. "It can grow unstable if it's not managed."

"Can you prove that?"

"Well…no. It's more of a gut feeling."

"Well _my_ gut says that we should sell it and get ourselves out of this little building. Picture this," he said, walking around the desk and putting his arm around Wilton's shoulders as he held up his hand. "Madison and Knight, Inc. We sell this thing, and we can say good-bye to downtown L.A. and hello to the uptown!"

"I think I like 'Knight and Madison, Inc.' better," he said, quirking an eyebrow.

"Hey, we can squabble over the name later when we buy our first skyscraper. C'mon. What d'ya say?"

"It's against my better judgment, but if you're sure…"

"Of course I'm sure! I've been working on this for the past six months! You won't regret this, Will," he said and walked out of the room.

"I sure hope not," Wilton said under his breath. He resumed his work, trying to suppress the troublesome feeling in the back of his mind.

KRKRKRKR

Todd walked down the sidewalk, hoping to find a discarded newspaper in the bus depot. Behind him, a long, black limo approached and stopped beside him at the curb. The tinted window at the rear rolled down, causing Todd to involuntarily step back.

"Get in," a harsh, deep voice said.

Todd obediently opened the door and slid inside, finding himself sitting beside a man he would rather not. The man was dressed in an expensive suit, and his black hair was slicked back. His features were as rough as his voice. This was not a man to be reckoned with. "You…you needed to see me, Mr. Bryder?" Todd asked, unsuccessfully keeping the worry from his voice. He had heard of people who were picked up in this car never to be seen again – well, alive anyway.

"Do you know what day it is?"

He swallowed. "The, uh, first day of May."

"Do you know what is supposed to happen on the first day of May?"

"I'm supposed to pay back your money," he said nervously.

"Well?"

Todd rubbed his hands. "Well, you see, it's like this: we've been working, but we're barely making ends meet. We've got a patent-pending, and we're about to make a huge sale to the government, so if you could just give us a week more…"

"You promised me by today."

"I know, but things just haven't-"

"You should have considered that before you asked me for a loan to back that poker game you just had to join. I was promised that your business would take off within a year's time, and it hasn't."

"Please, just a little more time," Todd pleaded.

"You have five days," he said, "but that is the only deadline I will give you. I _should_ kill you now, but I'm feeling charitable."

"Thank you," Todd said gratefully.

"Get out of my car."

Todd scrambled out of the limo and closed the door.

"Five days," Bryder warned ominously and rolled up the heavily tinted window.

KRKRKRKR

"You're sure that you have _everything_?" Todd asked Wilton.

Wilton paused from straightening his office to give his friend a curious look. "For someone who's done nothing but wheel and deal his entire life, you sure are on edge. Do you know something I don't?"

"Course not," he said. "I just know how absent-minded you are, that's all. I wanted to make sure that you had the plans."

"Todd, everything I've done is in this office. If I'm missing something, it will be in here."

"You're missing something?" He stopped pacing and paled.

"Will you calm down? I have it all on my desk!"

He sank into one of the chairs facing the desk. "Don't do that to me!"

A knock at the door interrupted Wilton's answer. Instead, he treaded across the unusually bare carpet and opened the door.

"Mr. Madison?" the man asked. He much shorter than Wilton, barely reaching his chest. His tan trench coat and spectacles labeled him as a man of the government.

"No, I'm Wilton Knight," he corrected and gestured at his partner who had jumped up from his seat. "My partner, Todd Madison."

"Mark Reilly," the man said briskly and shook each of the men's hands in turn. He then proceeded to the desk and sat in Wilton's seat. Setting his briefcase beside him, he crossed his hands in front of him and gestured for the men to sit. "I am on a schedule, so we must act efficiently. I was told that you have invented a…" He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "Force field?"

"Electromagnetic Repulsion Unit," Wilton said, sitting in the chair facing the desk. Todd sat at his left. "The plans are there in the drawer."

Reilly opened the drawer and retrieved a rolled piece of paper. Spreading it out in front of him, he studied it intently for several minutes, leaving both men on the edge of their seats. "Do you have a prototype?" he finally asked, looking at the two over the rim of his glasses.

"We can't build one," Wilton said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What my partner is trying to say is," Todd said, sending Wilton a warning look, "that our financial resources leave us too limited."

"Then how am I to know that it works? This could be a child's drawing for all I know."

Wilton bristled. "It is hardly a child's drawing, Mr. Reilly, and as far as it working, I can give you my personal guarantee that it does."

"A guarantee is not good enough. I need to see it work. I need proof."

"Mr. Reilly," Todd said, using his best diplomatic voice, "you knew when I called that all we had were plans. You must be interested, otherwise you would not be here."

"The price you're asking for this could only be paid if we knew it worked," Reilly argued stubbornly.

"Any scientist will verify its validity," Wilton said, not appreciating his intelligence and honesty being doubted. "In fact, my calculations and plans have _been_ verified by Dr. Robert Wallace."

This gained the man's attention. "_The_ Doctor Wallace? The one who has made so many breakthroughs on the possibilities of electromagnetism?"

It was everything Todd could do to stifle his surprise. How could Wilton have had this trump card and not told him?

"The one and the same," Wilton said. "You're welcome to contact him and have him support my claim."

"I have," he said flatly. "I wanted to see how much confidence you had in your product." He retrieved his briefcase and opened it on top of the desk. He retrieved a thick packet of papers and slid them across the desk to Wilton and Todd. "This is a contract transferring the rights to the ERU to the U.S. Government. Modifications included."

Wilton stopped Todd from reaching for a pen on the desk. "Before we sign this, I want to make sure that you are aware of the problems."

"Problems?" Reilly asked, pulling back the papers.

"Oh, ignore him," Todd said. "He tends to worry over minor things."

"I want to know what you intend to use this for," Wilton said.

"That is classified information," the man said, crossing his arms.

"Well, whatever your purpose, you should be aware that the more powerful you make it, the more dangerous it will be."

"Dangerous?"

"Will…" Todd said through his teeth.

"It will emit a great deal of radiation. Surely you are aware of the long-term effects."

"I…see," he said, thinking carefully. "I wasn't aware of this."

"It's still in the experimental phase," Todd said quickly. "I'm sure your scientists could modify it to create a safer model."

"Which would take a great deal of time and money," Reilly said. He withdrew the contract. "I need to discuss this with my superiors."

"Does that mean the deal is off?" Todd asked worriedly.

"No, but we must take this into consideration. I'll be in touch with you within the next two weeks."

"Two weeks? Can't you make it sooner?" Todd asked desperately.

Wilton looked at him in surprise and confusion.

"It's the best I can do. We're very busy. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen," the man said and left.

As soon as the door closed, Todd turned angrily toward Wilton. "How could you do that?" he demanded.

"He had to be aware of the consequences," Wilton said firmly. "It wouldn't have been right otherwise."

"Right? _Right_? Good God, man! This is the business world! A conscience will leave you poor! We had a chance! _A_ chance! And you blew it!"

"I didn't blow it. You heard him. He'll contact us within two weeks. I'm sure he'll still be interested."

"Fat lotta good that'll do me!" he yelled, his face beet red. He stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Wilton watched him go, unsure of his friend's behavior. It may be the business world, but he couldn't…_wouldn't_ sacrifice his principles to make a profit. He'd never be able to live with himself if he did. He was certain that he had done the right thing, but why was Todd so unsure? He shook his head and sat behind the desk, rummaging threw the drawers. Perhaps if he could find a way to revise the plans…

KRKRKRKR

An incessant knocking jarred Wilton from a sound sleep. He pushed himself from his desk and rose from his seat. He had been working all night trying to find a way to make the ERU safer, but his endeavors had proven unsuccessful. As he opened the door, he found himself looking up at two of the biggest men he had ever seen. He himself was tall, but these two dwarfed him by at least two inches, and their arms and chests bulged with muscles. A smaller, but still strong man stood in front of them. "Where's Madison?" the stranger asked.

"Madison?" Wilton asked, quickly clearing the cobwebs from his brain.

"Don't play dumb," he said and shoved Wilton out of the way as the three of them forcefully entered the office. The leader stopped at the center of the room and nodded at one of the musclemen. He lifted Wilton by the throat, an iron clamp around his neck. "I will ask you one more time, and if I don't like the answer, you'll die. Where is Madison?"

Wilton pulled at the meaty hand, trying to breathe but finding it difficult. "I…I don't know where he is…I swear!" he gasped. "Who are you?"

"Taylor D. Bryder. I loaned your partner three thousand dollars one year ago, and his payment is due."

"_Loaned_?" Wilton said, gasping for air. "For what?"  
Bryder nodded at his henchman, who dropped Wilton onto the floor. "Apparently, your friend can't resist a game of poker. Too bad his skills didn't serve him."

Wilton rubbed his neck. "Todd? Gamble?" He shook his head. Then he hesitated. Todd had always loved any game of chance, but he had never thought it would amount to this!

"I don't care whether you believe it or not," Bryder growled. "He owes me three grand with eighteen percent interest. Search the place," he told the other two.

"Right boss," they answered and dispersed.

Wilton could hear them climb the stairs to the apartment above. Things crashed and furniture thumped, causing Wilton to jump to his feet. "Stay where you are," Bryder warned, pulling out a handgun.

He froze.

"He's not here," one said as he and the other reentered the room. "And his room's cleaned out."

Bryder turned to Wilton. "Looks like your friend left _you_ holding the bag."

"Look, I had no idea any of this was going on," Wilton said, angry and hurt. "I never would have let him do it if I had!"

"Doesn't matter," Bryder said coldly. "You have two choices: either find your friend, or come up with the money."

"But I don't have that kind of money!"

"Three days," Bryder said and motioned for the others to follow. They left the building, and Wilton heard the engine start and then fade away.

Running up the stairs, he stopped at the mess before him. Furniture was overturned, lamps and pictures were smashed, dishes were broken, and Todd's room was empty. He paused doorway to Todd's bedroom and looked around. The bed had been pulled away from the wall, but that was the only piece of furniture left in the room. A single piece of paper lay on the floor, partially hidden by the bed. He stooped down and retrieved it.

_Will: _

_ Things too hot to stay. I'm sorry, Will, I had to get out of the country. Please forgive me. _

_ Todd_

He read it and reread it, unable to believe the words. How could Todd do this? To save his own skin, he had not only left the country but put Wilton's life in deadly danger. Why hadn't he said something? Why had he gambled at all? Worst of all, why hadn't he seen this coming? No wonder Todd had been so desperate to make that deal yesterday! He had probably left when Wilton dozed off at the desk, but how could he possibly make it on his own? Suddenly, a terrible thought occurred to him and he flew down the stairs and into his office. He didn't bother with Todd's as nothing of value was ever in there. He opened the filing cabinet and felt his heart come to a stop. Every single drawer was empty. All of Wilton's plans and ideas were gone. Looking at the desk, he realized that Todd had even taken the ERU literally from under Wilton's nose.

He sat down at the chair and put his head in his hands. What was he going to do now? That had been two year's work taken from him. They weren't even patented; just sitting in his office collecting dust until they could get enough money to get a patent. The ERU itself was in Todd's name because he said it would be easier to get a patent since he was the one going through the process. At least, that's what he had told Wilton two days ago when Wilton had found out. He had trusted Todd and didn't question the legal jargon Todd had thrown at him. Now… "How could I have been so blind?" he asked the empty room.

Pushing himself from the chair, he walked slowly back up the stairs in search of something he could sell to help pay back the loan sharks. He didn't relish the thought of what they would do to him if he didn't. He entered the small bedroom and looked around. Spotting an old trunk in the corner, he walked over to it and knelt before it, opening the lid. He pulled out his uniform and sat it beside him. He then pulled out his flight jacket. He considered parting with it, but he would need it come winter. Then there was silk from Paris…that would fetch a nice price, though it still wouldn't be enough. That was it, aside from an envelope at the bottom of the trunk containing one hundred dollars that he had saved in case of an emergency. He stuffed the envelope in his pants pocket. This was definitely an emergency. He lifted his flight suit and searched it for any forgotten bills, but came up empty. Lifting the jacket, his hand clutched a piece of paper and pulled it quickly out, hoping that it was money. Instead, he looked intriguingly at the white napkin, the sight of it bringing back memories he'd long forgotten. The address had been handed to him under the influence of alcohol. He doubted that the soldier who had given it to him even remembered the meeting. It wouldn't even be worth the effort to look him up, and time was crucial. What would be the point of blowing the last of the money he had on a one-chance shot?

He stuffed everything back into the trunk and walked downstairs to his office. Looking up a number in the phonebook beside it, he dialed and waited. "Hello. My name is Wilton Knight. What is the earliest flight you have to London, England?"


	5. Chapter 5

Wilton had to admit, England was much prettier in the warmer weather, especially in the country. His base had been close to London, so he had never had the opportunity to experience the countryside; except from the air, that is. Now, as he rode down the winding road in the back of a taxi, he admired the green, rolling hills and the ancient, stone homes and walls that enclosed fields where crops grew and others where various farm animals grazed. Spotting a sign that said, "Miles Estate", he leaned forward in his seat and told the driver, "Stop here."

The driver obliged and waited as Wilton climbed out, a small, worn, traveling bag in hand. Paying the driver, Wilton started up the dirt path, noting that it had to be extremely difficult to get to the road in the winter. As it was, the dirt rose around his feet, changing the toes of his black shoes to a lighter tan. The sun shown in a partially cloudy sky, warming him so much that he shed his lightweight jacket. Hearing the sound of a trotting horse, he stopped and watched as a man riding a roan mare appeared at the top of the hill to his right. The rider stopped his mount and appeared to study Wilton before nudging his horse into a fast canter.

"Hello! You, there!" the rider called, slowing his horse to a stop just feet from Wilton. He dismounted and, when he neared, Wilton recognized him as Devon Miles. He had aged only slightly in the two years since they had met in that bar in Paris. "Why are you on our property?"

"My name is Wilton Knight," he said, introducing himself. "I've come to see you."

"Me? Why?" he asked, clearly not remembering the previous encounter.

Wilton pulled out the old napkin and handed it to Devon. "You told me to."

He glanced at it and handed it back, shaking his head. "There must be some mistake. I've never met you before."

"Well, you were drunk at the time," he said, smiling slightly. "It was in Paris some two years ago. I had told you about some of my ideas, and you told me to look you up after the war, so I did."

He studied Wilton for several long moments before shaking his head again. "No, I'm sorry. I have no remembrance of you. Now, if you don't mind, please leave my property." He gathered the reins in his hand and walked around to the left side of his horse, preparing to mount.

"You told me about your parents," Wilton said, trying to get him to remember.

Devon stopped, still holding onto the mane. He looked at the other man. "What did you say?"

"They were killed in the London Blitz."

"Anyone could have read about that in the papers."

"I didn't read about it in the papers. You told me. You also told me you didn't really like farming."

He frowned.

"You still don't like it much, do you?" Wilton pressed.

"I've never told anyone that," he argued.

"Then how did I know?"

"I'm not sure," he said suspiciously. "You're an American?"

Wilton nodded. "I came to England specifically to make you an offer."

"Me? An offer? What could you possibly entice me with? This farm is one of the best in the country," he said, approaching Wilton and gesturing to the land.

"You told me that you hated farming. You wanted something that involved taking a chance."

The disbelief slowly began to ebb from Devon's face, but not all of it. "You came all the way from America to make an offer to someone you met once?"

"It sounds strange, I know, but I am. I need a business associate."

"Thank you, no. You may remember me, but I do not remember you, and I'm not inclined to go into business with a perfect stranger."

"At least hear me out before you turn me down!" Wilton pleaded, stopping Devon with a hand on his elbow. "It's far more risky for me to ask you than for you to accept. The worst that could happen to you is that you'd have to come back to England. Me? I'd lose everything." He stopped. "I've already almost lost everything. You are the only person that I have to turn to, Miles. The only one. I have no family, and my business partner just ran out on me with all my inventions and left me with a debt I'm not sure I'll ever be able to pay off. It took the rest of what I had to pay for my trip here."

He faced Wilton. "What is it that you want from me?"

"I don't know how to deal or sell, and I certainly don't know how to impress people. I'm an inventor. That's it."

"What makes you think that I could be such a help?"

"I don't, but you're the only one I have to turn to."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Knight, but this was a wasted trip," he said, not unfeelingly. "I appreciate your situation, but as far as my memory serves me, I've never seen you before in my life. I'm not doubting you," he continued when the other started to protest. "There were several…episodes that I regret. However, what you propose is simply too risky for me to even consider. I can't simply pack up and travel to America on account of a business proposition that may or may not bear fruit."

"I see," Wilton said, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

Feeling more than a little guilty, Devon said, "Well, since you _are_ here, why don't you come up to the house? The least I can do is offer you lodging for the night."

"Thank you, no," he said. "My flight leaves this evening. Would it be possible for me to use your phone to call a taxi?"  
"I'll do better than that," Devon said. "If you'll give me a short while to care for my horse, I'll drive you to the city."

"I wouldn't want you to go out of your way-"

"Nonsense! I have some business to attend to in London anyway." He led the horse up the path as Wilton walked beside him.

Wilton doubted that the Englishman had been telling the truth and figured it was simply because he felt sorry for him, but a taxi was very expensive, and he agreed to the offer. On the way to London, he told Devon of the small business he and Todd had started, Todd's hidden gambling problems, the lost patent, and the burden of debt that was left on his shoulders. He hadn't really hoped to change the other's mind, and he didn't. He had been hoping that in voicing his problems, he might arrive at a solution, but he still had no idea what he would do when he returned.

Devon parked his Mercedes close to the doors of the airport terminal. "I'm sorry, Mr. Knight," he said.

Wilton paused, his hand resting on the open door. "You needn't be," he said. "It was an idea born out of desperation. I'm the one who should apologize for putting you in such a spot. Thanks for the ride." He climbed out of the car and lifted his traveling bag over his shoulder.

"Mr. Knight?"

Wilton peered into the open window.

"Good luck."

"Thanks," he said.

Devon watched him disappear into the building, stifling a sharp pang of guilt from his conscience. _He didn't even know the man! _His eyes fell upon a white piece of paper on the seat. Figuring it had fallen out of the American's pocket, he discovered it was the napkin. The handwriting was sloppy, so sloppy that he wondered if perhaps Knight had read it incorrectly. A car honked its horn behind him, and he quickly dropped the car into gear, driving out of the large parking lot and onto the road.

KRKRKRKR

The clock on the office wall chimed eight times, waking Wilton who was once again sleeping at his desk. Squinting at the clock, his eyes suddenly widened and he jumped up from his chair. Desperate to find a way to keep his dream of founding a business going, he had spent the entire night trying to find a way to come up with the needed money. At some point, he had fallen asleep with nothing to show for his efforts

They would be coming soon, and he didn't want to be there when they arrived. He hurried up the stairs and tossed items randomly into his suitcase before flying down the stairs for the only exit. However, when he reached for the knob, the door opened. Wilton dropped the suitcase and stepped backwards, but one of the strong men grabbed him, twisting his arm behind his back and pinned it into the small of his back.

"You wouldn't be thinking of leaving without paying, would you?" Bryder sneered, his eyes cold. "Take him to the other room."

Despite Wilton's strength, he was still dragged into his office. "Mr. Bryder, I tried but-"

"Where is my money?" he demanded, grabbing Wilton's shirt with his fists while another held Wilton in place. The third man positioned himself beside the doorway.

"I don't have it, but if you could give me more time-"

"Time? I gave your partner a year!"

"But it was him that borrowed the money, not me!"

"I gave you a choice: either you find him or pay me the money. You didn't find him, so you owe me five G's plus interest. Where is it?"

"I don't have it – ah!" Wilton gasped, doubling over in pain when Bryder shoved his fist into his stomach.

"Release that man at once!" a sharp voice barked from the doorway.

"Hey, boss, who's he?" the one holding Wilton asked.

"This ain't none of your concern," Bryder warned the newcomer. "Beat it."

The stranger tisked and stepped into the room. "Americans. Only you could twist the most beautiful language in the world into some…well, never mind."

Recognizing the voice, Wilton looked up in surprise. "Miles?" he asked, wondering if he was hallucinating. His next thought immediately went to the danger the other man was placing himself in. "You'd better go. They'll kill you too."

"Kill?" He shook his head. "No, these gentlemen won't kill anyone, will you? You know as well as I do that he's worth far more alive than dead, at least, until you receive your money. Tell me, do you know that usury is illegal in America?"

"Joe, get rid of him," Bryder snapped.

The one standing beside the doorway approached Devon, who was obviously a much smaller build. "You don't want to fight with me," Devon warned.

Joe balled his hand into a large, meaty fist and hurled it toward Devon's face, but before he could strike, Devon shoved the hand upwards and used his own fist to uppercut his assailant in the jaw. The man's head snapped backwards and he stumbled, tumbling over the chair sitting in the middle of the floor and onto the carpet. Straightening his jacket, Devon said, "Well, I did warn you." He approached the leader. "Your high interest rates and strong-arm tactics are illegal, and if you do not cease and desist immediately, I will report you to the proper authorities."

Wilton's jaw dropped to the floor. English or not, he knew better than to threaten like that! Although that was probably the politest threat he had ever heard.

Bryder threw back his head and laughed. "Get a load of this one!" he exclaimed, gesturing with his gun at Devon.

"I wouldn't take me so lightly, if I were you," Devon said. "I happen to know that you and your men are wanted in several states for the very same thing that you are doing to Mr. Knight."

The smile quickly dropped into an angry frown. "You know, I was gonna have one of my men kill you, but I think I'll do it myself." He aimed the gun at Devon's chest.

"I don't think so, Mr. Bryder," he said, his voice calm despite being at gunpoint. "Officers?" he called.

Several blue uniforms stormed into the room, guns drawn and aimed at the three. "You!" Bryder seethed, cocking the gun.

"Toss the gun away, Mr. Bryder," Devon said. "As it is, you'll be given ten to twenty. Would you really like to push for the electric chair?"

His gun wavered, and he tossed it away. "You ain't seen the last of me," he growled. As he and the other two were led away in handcuffs, he shouted a nonstop string of expletives and promises for revenge.

It wasn't until the building cleared out that Devon walked over to the chair in front of the desk and sat down, releasing a shaky breath and running a nervous hand through his hair. "I do hope his kind are in the minority," he said as Wilton reentered the office. "I'm not sure I could do that again."

"You just stood up a mobster!" Wilton exclaimed, finally regaining his ability to speak. "Not only that, you had him arrested! Do you know what that could do to you? He'll come after you as soon as he gets out!"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," he said, dismissing the other's concern with a wave of his hand. "When I said ten to twenty, I meant ten to twenty in each of the nine states in which he's wanted. At least, that's what the constable told me when I spoke to him this morning."

"I owe you a lot for what you did," Wilton said gratefully, extending his hand. "You saved my life."

Devon shook it. "Not so much your life but a great deal of bruising. As I said before, you are worth more alive than dead."

Wilton circled the desk and eased himself into his chair, his body protesting against the rough treatment it received. "Nevertheless, thank you, Mr. Miles."

"I would rather you call me Devon. After all, we are business associates, aren't we?"

Wilton blinked. "But I thought-"

"That I wasn't coming? Yes, well, I almost didn't. I truly didn't remember you, but then I saw one of the planes take off at the airport, and I suddenly remembered a conversation that I had a long time ago about improvements that needed to be made to airplanes. I admit, the evening is still very hazy, but meeting you is not. I am a man of my word. If I made you an offer of help, then I will keep my promise." He shrugged. "Besides, you were right. I hate farming."

Wilton regarded the man before speaking. "Before you jump feet-first into this mess, it's only fair that you understand a few things."

"Such as?"

"Getting rid of a loan shark is only a small battle compared to the problems still left to face. My former partner took every design that I had. At this moment, I have no inventions and very few ideas. The only thing that I can claim as mine is this building, and half of it is mortgaged by a bank – a legal one, but still a bank. It won't be a cake-walk because we literally have to restart this business from scratch. And another thing, if one of my inventions may be dangerous, I won't withhold the information from a potential buyer. It's unethical, and that's an issue on which I will not and cannot be swayed."

"Nor would I ask you to do so," Devon said, slightly taken back by the man's vehemence. "I do have principles, you know."

Wilton smiled slightly. "So I've noticed."

Devon returned it briefly. "Since you're being honest with me, then allow me to make a few points of my own. I don't understand the world of business, nor am I familiar with your American…views. I've only just completed my first year of law, but, obviously, it's British, not American, law. Anything that I do in this business will most likely be for the first time and an experiment. I honestly don't see how I could be of benefit to your company aside from a few contacts, but if you're still interested in hiring me, then I'll do the best that I can."

"I only have one question for you."

"Yes?"

"Do you gamble?"

Devon shook his head. "Sorry. I never cared for it."

Wilton leaned forward and extended his hand over the desk. "Welcome to the business."

Devon shook it firmly. "Thank you." He chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"Some foundation we've laid. You've no plans, and even if you did, I have no idea how to market them."

"Well, there is one consolation."

"Which is?"

"If this doesn't work out, you could always teach me how to farm."

Devon groaned. "Please don't mention that word in front of me! If I never see another cloven-footed beast again, it will be too soon!"


	6. Chapter 6

"It won't work, Wilton," Devon said, shaking his head as he studied the blueprints over the other man's shoulder.

Wilton looked at him, slightly annoyed. It wasn't the use of his full first name. He had long since grown used to that. He had tried to get Devon to call him Will like everyone else did, but Devon refused, saying that it had belonged to a "most despicable boy" he had known in his childhood and the name still left a bad taste in his mouth. "Who's the scientist: you or me?"

"I wasn't referring to the product itself," Devon corrected. "It's the appeal. We need a…what do you Americans call it? We need an angle. Some sort of selling quality that will make it irresistible."

Wilton looked down at the blueprints for the airplane. "It flies itself. Isn't that appeal enough?"

"Well…no." Devon circled to the front of the desk and walked over to the filing cabinet. Resting his elbow on the top, he propped his chin on his fist. Finally, he turned to Wilton. "Obviously it's a novelty, but it's an expensive novelty. Not to mention the fear factor."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"People have a natural tendency to distrust new technology. Granted, there are a few adventurous souls, but there is already a severe problem with people who fear flying. They won't react positively toward a machine that flies itself. There are too many science fiction myths."

Wilton leaned back in his chair, resting his head against his propped up fist. "For someone who claimed to know very little about marketing, you certainly are quick to make statements."

"That's because, while you've been cooped up in this office for the past two months trying to create that plane, _I've_ been busy studying market trends. I _am_ capable of learning something new, you know."

Deciding against a smart reply, Wilton asked, "What would you recommend?"

"You designed an entire plane around this system, didn't you?"

"Yes, the wires and sensors require special placement and interact with the engine."

"There's your first problem."

"What?"

"This would require someone to purchase an entire plane. Why not modify the system to be _installable_? That way it could easily be applied to existing planes. It's cheaper and much more appealing."

"What about the 'fear factor'?"  
"Yes, well, that is a problem." Devon frowned in thought and paced twice across the office. He snapped his fingers and stopped. "We have build one and fly it. Show people how safe it really is."

"That would cost a fortune! A fortune we don't have, I might add."

"You own half this building, don't you?"  
"Well, yeah, but…" He shook his head. "No, we can't mortgage that too. It's all we have left!"

"Will that plane fly?"

"Yes, but-"

"The public won't take your word for it. And imagine the publicity when they see a plane flying itself!"

"All right, say we mortgage the building. It's still not near enough to even purchase the plane, let alone the parts."

"Leave that part to me. You just finish those plans!" He left the office, obviously determined, and closed the door behind him.

Wilton stared at the door for a long while, trying to figure out what his associate was up to, but he decided to wait and see. He only hoped that his answer didn't come in the form of another loan shark and two musclemen.

KRKRKRKR

"Congratulate me," Devon said excitedly, entering the office.

Wilton's heart stopped as his mind flashed back to a previous conversation beginning the exact same way. In the back of his mind, he began to form a list of possible hiding places where powerful men couldn't find him. He looked up at Devon cautiously. "Why?"

"It took a little bit of dickering, but I've managed to secure us everything we need to build your plane!" he said, his grin practically splitting his face in two.

"How?" he asked, the cautiousness creeping into his voice.

"I didn't mortgage the building, if that's what you're worried about," he assured, sensing Wilton's concern. "But I've had to expand the business to incorporate some extra help. After all, you can't build it by yourself within reasonable time limits. There is a man by the name of Tim Schwartz. He's well known around the Wall Street crowd. Anyway, he's agreed to sponsor us and pay for whatever we need. So, I made a few calls and secured us a hangar, a new plane, and four technicians. I wasn't sure about the equipment, but you can handle that part."

"I'm glad you find me competent enough to handle that much," Wilton said sarcastically.

"I beg your pardon?" Devon asked, confused. He had thought Wilton would be pleased with the progress.

"Didn't you think it might be a good idea to include me on any of these business dealings?"

"I was under the assumption that this was part of my job. It does fall under business matters."

"Incorporating a third person is something that affects both of us, Devon!" he said angrily.

"He's not a _third_ person. He's a sponsor, and temporary for that matter. He's not interested in the business. Only the product."

"And what does Schwarz want in return?"

"Repayment of the money and a third of the profits made from the plane." He slowly approached and sat in the chair facing Wilton. "I thought it was a reasonable request. And once the sales take off-"

"Suppose they don't? Suppose we can't sell the design? We haven't even secured a patent for that! You may have single-handedly bankrupted us before we even got on our feet!" he interrupted, still angry.

"Now wait one minute, Wilton Knight," Devon defended. "You can't just sit in this office and draw plans! It takes a great deal of money just to secure a patent, including lawyers, complicated paperwork, and lots and lots of time, and that's just for one design! Not only that, but if we're to market _anything_, we have to have a prototype. We agreed on that last week! We cannot hope to get this business off the ground without bringing in outside help, and I happen to know that Mr. Schwarz is a reputable businessman. He and my father were good friends for nearly thirty years! I'm sorry if I've offended you by not consulting you first, but I had thought that you had more faith in me considering you brought me all the way from England for help! Do you or do you not trust me to do my job?"

Wilton sighed. "I'm sorry, Devon, but I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to truly trust anyone again." Seeing the hurt look on Devon's face, he said, "But you're right. We need a prototype, and to get a prototype, we need money. When can we start building it?"  
"Whenever you're ready," Devon said, his voice quiet. "I'd hoped to start applying for a patent as soon as I had the finished plans – that is, if that's all right."

Wilton felt a sharp pang of guilt at the undertone of sourness in Devon's voice. "That's fine. I'm almost finished with the drafts, so it should be ready hopefully by tomorrow. Devon?" he said when the other man started to leave.

Devon faced him but said nothing.

"I'm sorry," he said contritely. "You did a good job in making the arrangements."

"Thank you," Devon said flatly and left the office.

KRKRKRKR

"Hey, boss, there may be a slight problem here," one of the technicians wearing a white lab coat called from the front of the plane. It was a small, single-engine plane barely big enough to hold four people. For this experiment, that was all they needed.

"What is it, Marty?" Wilton asked, fighting down a growing headache. He had told Devon the plane would be ready and flying three days ago, but he and his group had been plagued with nothing but problems as they scrambled to add the finishing touches.

"It's the hydraulics that take care of the stabilizers. I think we're using too much power," Marty said when Wilton approached. His bright red hair and freckles took years off of his actual age, so much so that he'd been accused of being a minor on more than one occasion.

"Even with the props recharging the battery?" Wilton asked, taking the clipboard from the man.

"Uh-huh. And it's not just the stabilizers we're gonna have problems with. We need more juice."

"How? If we pack any more pieces into this aircraft, it will never take off."

"That's where you're wrong, sir. See, I've been thinking about it, and I think there may be a way to lessen the burden. We need a smaller system."

"Smaller?" he questioned, unsure. "All parts must be able to function at maximum efficiency."

"I'm aware of that, sir, but, if you'll pardon me, I don't think you need as much power to control the plane as you may think. As you know, it's different in the air than on the ground. Under good conditions, it won't take as much power to steer the plane."

"What about poor weather conditions? It taxes the systems far more if it faced strong turbulence."

"Why not have an emergency power supply to help the system?"

Wilton thought carefully for a moment and nodded. "I think we may be able to do it. How long will it take to fix it?"

"Not long at all. In fact, five more hours and this bird will be in the air."

Wilton clapped Marty on the back. "Well done!" he praised. "I want details of every change made. There shouldn't be too many considering that it's already a simple system." He rolled up his sleeves. "Let's get started, shall we?"

KRKRKRKR

The sun was just beginning to peak over the distant hills surrounding the private airport, and not a cloud appeared in the blue sky. A light wind toyed with the bright orange sock near the small building that housed the office building. In a hangar at the end of the runway, the two large doors were parted, slowly rolling in opposite directions. The bay was almost empty but for a single plane. A black insignia in the shape of a Knight chess piece was painted on the side (Devon's idea of a mascot, though Wilton thought it looked ridiculous), the only blemish decorating the pristine white surface.

"Today's the day," Wilton said, brushing his hands on his jeans.

Devon checked his watch as he walked toward the plane. "Mr. Schwarz said he'd be here at eight o'clock."

"We still have some time then," he said. "Give me a hand, will you?" He bent down in front of the wheels and kicked away the stoppers. "Push!" The two men forced the lightweight plane into the open air.

Devon looked up at the clear sky before turning his attention to his friend who stood on the other side of the tail. "I'd rather you sent it up by itself."

"How would that look to our sponsor? An inventor who doesn't believe in what he invented?"

"He would look like a smart man."

"One of us has to be in that plane, Devon. You've never even flown a plane. I have."

"If everything goes well, the machine will fly itself."

"If everything goes well."

"What's that supposed to mean? I thought all the kinks had been worked out!"

"Don't have a panic attack, Devon," Wilton chided. "As far as I know, everything has been accounted for. However, I have to account for the unaccounted. If something goes wrong, then there'll still be the human element."

"The 'human element' can get himself killed," Devon warned.

"You worry too much about me."

"_You_?" He snorted. "Do you know how much your death would cost me? We're in debt up to our eyebrows as it is! How am I supposed to come up with the money for a funeral?"

Wilton rolled his eyes. "You're all heart, Devon."

The gates separating the airport from the back road slowly slid open, and a long, black limo parked itself in front of the office building on the opposite side of the runway. "Get the plane ready," Devon told Wilton. "I'll take care of our guest." He jogged across the runway and the grassy field to the limo.

Wilton opened the door and climbed into the pilot's seat, mentally going over each of the numerous gauges and controls. He looked out the door's window and saw Devon shake hands with a man he didn't recognize. He assumed it was Mr. Schwartz. He had been so busy with the plane over the past five months that he had been forced to leave much of the diplomatic affairs to Devon. He hated doing it, but he didn't have a choice. As far as he knew, Devon had been doing an excellent job, and he didn't argue about putting the patent in Wilton's name. Yet he hadn't been quite the same after Wilton had berated him for taking the initiative without consulting him first. He was still an excellent worker, but he now consulted Wilton on just about everything and gave him constant updates on his progress; something Devon hadn't used to do. He used to simply tell Wilton what he had accomplished when everything was said and done. Not that he blamed Devon. After all, Wilton had bluntly told him that he didn't trust him, and while his reasons made sense, he knew it didn't make the hurt any less.

Seeing Devon wave, he pressed a button and began to flip switches, activating the onboard system. Not once during the demonstration would he fly the plane unless it became absolutely necessary. He had already given it a preprogrammed destination. It was to take off, circle the field twice, and land. A simple task for any pilot. The plane, however, had not been tested before today, as he and the crew had been working up till eleven o'clock the previous night.

The engine sputtered and then roared, and it slowly began to taxi down the runway. Steadily, it gained speed until it lifted itself into the air. It circled the field twice as it had been told and landed safely. Given its excellent performance, Wilton boldly sent it up by itself and joined Devon and the other man by the limo.

"What do you thing you're doing?" Devon hissed quietly enough so that only Wilton could hear. He had just begun to believe the sense in Wilton's previous arguments, and now he went and changed tactics! The inventor was taking an enormous risk allowing the plane to fly completely unmanned. What if something went wrong? What if the plane crashed? What if it went off its course and flew away? Worse yet, he couldn't possibly point any of that out without showing a lack of confidence in the invention, and that was the last thing he wanted to do in the presence of Mr. Schwartz.

Wilton only smiled and shrugged.

Devon looked ready to kill.

"Mr. Knight, I presume?" the man said, extending his hand behind Devon to Wilton. His short hair was jet black, going well with his tanned skin and blue eyes. He wore an expensive tan trench coat that covered his gray suit. He was of lean build, but the strength in his grip told Wilton that looks were deceiving.

"Yes sir. You must be the famous Mr. Schwartz."

"Well, I hardly think myself famous." He looked up at the plane as it flew overhead. "I was about to ask your partner how I would know whether the plane was flying itself or whether you were flying the plane."

"I can guarantee you, sir, that I did not fly that plane," Wilton promised.

The man watched the plane as it circled a second time. "Yes, so I see. A remarkable achievement, Mr. Knight."

"Thank you," he answered.

The plane angled itself to land on the runway and slowly descended. When its wheels safely touched the earth, Devon involuntarily released the breath he had been holding.

"Nervous, Mr. Miles?" Mr. Schwartz asked, amused.

"No, of course not," Devon said, straightening. "I have every confidence in his invention."

Wilton stifled a grin but didn't contradict him. That didn't mean he wouldn't tease him mercilessly later, however.

The plane came to a stop and parked itself in front of the hangar, facing away from the doors. Two technicians dressed in lab coats pushed it back into the hangar and began to check it over as the three men crossed the land to the hangar.

"Yes, very impressive," Mr. Schwartz said, circling the plane. "And you say that any plane can be modified?"

Wilton nodded. "That part was Devon's idea. He believed it would be more marketable, and I agreed."

"And the patent?"

"We're still awaiting word, but he lawyer has assured us that there should be no problem," Devon said.

Mr. Schwartz stepped back to admire the plane. "A stroke of genius," he said. "Do you know what you have here?"

Wilton looked at Devon and they both shook their heads.

"You have just created your million-dollar idea. An extremely rare exception considering most inventors go through hundreds of failed ideas before they find the one thing that will make them rich."

"You really think it has that much potential?" Wilton asked, surprised.

"I've been in business a long time, Mr. Knight, and I know a golden opportunity when I see it," he assured.

Hearing the phone ring, Devon discretely backed away as Wilton and the other man continued to talk. Lifting the receiver, he said, "Hello?…No, my name is Devon Miles, but I'm the one in charge of the patent….Who?…A problem?…Yes, yes, but I'm afraid I don't quite understand…No, we haven't sold it yet. We've been waiting on the patent…I see….I see…Good-bye." It took everything in his power not to slam down the phone.

"Who was that?" Wilton asked, noticing the scowl on Devon's face when he rejoined them.

Devon forced his face into a more neutral expression. "A wrong number," he said. "Thank you again for coming today, Mr. Schwartz," he said and extended his hand.

Schwartz shook it. "I wouldn't have missed this for all the tea in China." He shook Wilton's hand as well. Glancing at his watch, he said, "Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have another important engagement and barely enough time to make it." He exited the hangar and approached the open door of the limo where the driver held it open. Before he got inside, he looked over the black roof to the two men. "Oh, and if you're looking for a future sponsor, don't hesitate to call." He got into the car, and the limo made a slow circle, driving back to the gate.

"Well done, everyone," Devon called to the technicians. "You've earned a day off!"

"Day off? What are you-" Wilton didn't get a chance to finish because the hangar cleared out quickly. "We still have an enormous amount of work left!" he told Devon, irritated.

"We've got bigger things to worry about," Devon said and led Wilton toward the plane. "Do you know who that was on the phone?"

"You said it was a wrong number."

"I lied. I didn't want Mr. Schwartz to find out. That was actually the United States Patent Office. They're sending out a representative later this afternoon to speak to us."

"Why? I thought the lawyer was handling all the details."

"Not this detail. They're refusing to grant the patent."

"What? Don't tell me that someone's invented this already!"

"It's the opposite. No one's ever come near to achieving what you have today, and it has your government worried. He said he would explain it when he came. He's meeting us back at the office."

KRKRKRKR

"There is absolutely no reason why that patent shouldn't be granted," Wilton said angrily, resting his arms on the desk.

"When it affects national security, there is," the man said, looking over the dark rims of his reading glasses at Wilton. His gaunt body failed to fill out his light gray suit, and his pale skin gave him an almost sickly appearance, but his voice was deceivingly strong.

"That's preposterous!" Devon huffed, sitting on the corner of Wilton's desk with his arms crossed. "How can a self-piloted plane be of danger to national security?"

"When a patent is granted, all of the documents and designs submitted become available to the public," the agent said. "This means that anyone could get hold of them and build a plane of their own."

"Not without being sued, they can't," Wilton said.

"That's only if they try to market it without your permission," the agent corrected. "The powers-that-be are concerned about its potential uses."

"Such as?" Wilton asked.

"Warfare, spy planes, and the technology could be applied to…other things that I'd rather not discuss."

"It sounds like the 'powers-that-be' have already been making plans," Devon said accusingly.

"What has or has not been done is none of your concern, Mr. Miles," he said, his tone a warning. "This is America, not Britain."

"I'll thank you not to speak to my associate in that manner, Mr. Chambers," Wilton said, his voice steel. "What is it that you want from us?"

He handed a stack of papers that were paper-clipped together to Wilton. "This is an offer from the U.S. Defense Department for fifty thousand dollars for your plane."

"And if I don't want to sell?" Wilton dared.

"You don't have a choice."

"The plans alone are worth five times that," Devon argued.

"It's worth nothing if you don't have the rights to it."

Wilton sat the papers on the desk. "I'm not signing anything until I've spoken with my lawyer."

Chambers shrugged and returned the papers to his briefcase. "Have it your way." He rose from his chair and started for the door. Reaching for the handle, he stopped and turned to face them. "But he'll tell you to sign." He opened the door and left.

Devon hurried to the door and checked to be sure he was gone before he walked back to the desk. "We'll just see about that!" Devon reached for the phone, but Wilton stopped him with a hand on his.

"Don't bother," Wilton said. "Chambers is right." He sighed and pulled out the enormous blueprints.

"You're not admitting defeat, are you?" he asked, appalled by such a suggestion. "You're going to let that half-pint bully railroad you into giving up your plane?"

Wilton sighed and rolled up the plans. "I haven't a choice. I just didn't want to give him the satisfaction of signing immediately."

"But Wilton," Devon said, sitting across from the desk and leaning forward, "Fifty-thousand will barely allow us to break even after the debts are paid, and I don't think Mr. Schwartz will be as eager to loan us money in the future after this!"

"I'm well-aware of that," Wilton said sadly. He walked to the door, pausing long enough to grab his hat and coat.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm not sure yet," he answered and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

Devon sighed and walked over to the filing cabinet. It was still terribly sparse, but it had been steadily filling with different sketches and outlines of ideas. Some would be discarded forever. The others that had potential would be worked out in greater detail; if given the chance, that is. They needed the security of a patent to market, but they dared not risk again the fiasco that had just occurred. Wilton still hadn't quite swallowed the idea of a third party even though Mr. Schwartz had been nothing but fair, and Devon doubted he could get Wilton to agree to another sponsor. Even if he could, who could he get? Who would want to sponsor an unknown? Then the problem remained of what would happen if the U.S. government continued to decide Wilton's ideas were dangerous.

He closed the drawer and began to pace. It was times like this when he wished he'd completed his education. He was also starting to wish he had stayed in England. Some help he'd been. After seven months, they still couldn't get the business off the ground. What would happen if it finally went under? He could still return to the family farm, but Wilton would be left with nothing.

His thoughts slid to an abrupt halt. "Of course!" he exclaimed to himself. "Why think of this before?" He hurried to the filing cabinet and removed a handful of papers from the top drawer before bolting out of the office.

KRKRKRKR

Devon looked up from his desk in the office across from Wilton's at the sound of the front door opening. Though it was ten o'clock the following morning, Devon was dressed in the same clothes, attesting to the fact that he had been up all night. Various books lay open on his desk, and papers were scattered on the floor, some stacked in piles. "Wilton? Is that you?" he called, walking out into the small entryway.

"It's me." Wilton wearily shed his jacket and hung it on the rack on the inside of his office.

Devon entered the office and watched his friend sink into the chair. "Where have you been?"

"I don't need a keeper," he said, his tone suggesting that Devon not push the issue.

"You'd been gone all night. I was worried, that's all," he said. "Anyway, now that you're here, I need to discuss something with you. I think I've found a solution to our problem."

"I told you before. There's nothing we can do," Wilton said, pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes fell upon the open drawer of the filing cabinet. Rising to his feet, he inspected the drawer and looked at Devon. "There are papers missing."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," he said. "I mailed them."

"You what? To where?" he demanded, more than a little upset.

"To us. It's all part of my idea, you see," he continued. "During one of my courses in college, I remember one of my professors who told a story about a man getting a poor man's patent."

"A poor man's patent?" Wilton looked at him suspiciously.

"It costs no more than the price of an envelope and postage. You make a copy of your design and mail it to yourself, but you can't open it up – not until you have to prove that the idea was yours. Even the American court system won't refute the date printed across the stamp by the U.S. postal service! Then, once it's been challenged in the courts, it will be in the court records for the rest of time!"

Wilton closed the drawer and leaned against the cabinet. "And this works?"

"So long as the envelope hasn't been tampered with. Of course, I wouldn't base a business on it, but it may be our only hope of getting the government off our backs."

"But can we convince others that it's valid?"

"I've just spent the entire night writing a convincing argument. I'll admit, we're skirting the line, but we haven't crossed it. We can make this work if you'll give it a chance." Hearing a knock at the door, he disappeared and reappeared carrying a manila envelope. Handing it to Wilton, he said, "I had wanted to see how long it would take, so I mailed them yesterday. You'll find that they're all there," he added pointedly.

Wilton heard the hurt in his last sentence, and it was not unwarranted. His first instinct when he had seen the missing plans was to accuse Devon of stealing them. After all, it was the very thing that Todd had done. Devon had worked hard over the past several months to prove his loyalty and trustworthiness, but in the back of Wilton's mind, he continued to worry that he would have to look for yet another associate if the business failed again. However, Devon had not only stayed, but also worked out a plausible solution to their problems. He knew it was wrong to force Devon to make up for the problems that Todd had caused. After all, Devon and Todd were amazingly different in personality and in the decisions they made. Both were more apt to push Wilton into taking chances, but Devon still erred on the side of caution. Todd was willing to plunge head first into something without pausing to consider the consequences. Devon spent long hours working on paperwork and finding ways within the system to make an idea work. Todd disappeared for days at a time and usually returned a lot poorer than when he had left. Todd also used Wilton for his benefit. Devon had given up a wealthy lifestyle to help if for nothing else but because he had said he would.

"Well? Aren't you going to open it?" Devon asked impatiently, crossing his arms.

Wilton realized he had been silent for longer than he had intended. He shook his head and tossed the envelope to the edge of the desk. "I'll take your word for it," he said.

Surprise crossed the other's face. "You will?" he asked, unable to stop himself from questioning. He had expected Wilton to open it and count the pages.

"You said they were all there, didn't you?"

"I checked before I mailed them," he assured.

"Then what would be the use?"

He smiled slightly. "I don't suppose there is any," he said.

"Good," Wilton said. Changing the subject, he asked, "You're certain that we can pull this off?"

"Truthfully? No, but it has worked before. It's just harder, that's all. The plane's gone, but you have a lot of other plausible ideas. The decision's yours to make, of course. They're your designs." He waited.

"What do you think?"

"Personally? I think we have a chance, and we didn't even have that before now."

"Fine. We'll try it your way." He yawned. "I think I'll turn in. Being up all night is finally catching up with me."

Devon blinked. "You're sure? About the patent? It's not a definite thing, and I've never tried this before-"

"Devon, I have every confidence in you," he said, clapping his friend on the back. "Besides," he called as he started for the stairs, "if this fails, I can blame _you_!"

Devon turned in his seat and listened as Wilton climbed the stairs. "You're all heart!" he returned loudly. He too had been up all night, but he had far too much to do before he could even consider catching up on his sleep; the first thing being dismantling the plane. The American government may get the plans, but he wouldn't give them the benefit of having the prototype too. Any engineer could build another, but at least it would cost them. It was spiteful, but it made him feel just a little better. After all, he didn't have to be patriotic. He was British.

He looked about the small room. Well, he decided, other profitable businesses had started from humble beginnings, and Americans had a knack for succeeding in the face of failure. Given that, maybe they had a chance. Maybe.


	7. Chapter 7

The mansion sat like a fortress atop a hill. In fact, it even looked like a fortress with its stone walls and towers. The only thing missing to complete the scene was a drawbridge. When Wilton had bought it, the real estate agent had explained to him that it was actually built recently by an eccentric, Thomas Buckley, who loved the stories of Camelot. However, before the builder could move in, he ran out of money and was forced to sell it. Devon had been unsure of the purchase, worrying that Wilton may be counting his chickens before they hatched, but after securing a six-million dollar contract to construct five supercomputers for the United States government, Wilton calmly told his friend to shut-up and let him have some fun. And so, the Buckley Castle became the Knight Castle, and Devon had remained indignant for three weeks.

Behind the "castle", as it came to be called, the foundation had been laid for a monstrous garage, rivaling that of an airplane hangar. With their business, now known as Knight Industries, rapidly growing, Wilton had decided it would be a good idea to simply move the operations there where he could work on different projects and have enough room to even have several different projects going at once. It also served to keep the two associates out of each other's hair because, while they were extremely good friends, they operated in two entirely different worlds. Wilton was no more comfortable in an office than Devon was in a computer lab.

The interior of the castle had been expertly designed to maximize the generous amount of space allotted for each room. There was no doubt of the wealth of the owner, but, instead of a flashy display, it was more of a quiet elegance. The west wing had been portioned off for office space, and, had it not been Saturday, it would have been kept fairly noisy with people going about their daily jobs. However, it was Saturday, and the only one at work in his office was Devon. As one of the two senior members, his rank earned him one of the nicest offices overlooking the land. Not that he particularly cared for the rolling hills and tree-covered landscape. He may have grown up on a farm, but he preferred the hustle and bustle of the city. At least if he were on the sixtieth story of a skyscraper, there wouldn't be a cricket singing its heart out on the other side of the window.

He groaned and slammed the pencil onto the desk and walked over to the large window. He had been searching for that annoying insect for three days, and he still had yet to find it. He made a mental note to buy some poison…just as soon as he found out how to poison a cricket.

A deep baritone singing echoed in the halls, making him wish the cricket could sing louder. He covered his ears and returned to his desk. The door opened and Wilton walked into the room, waltzing with an imaginary partner. Devon did a double-take. "Wilton? Are you all right?" he asked, wondering at his friend's odd behavior.

"All right? Devon, things couldn't be more perfect! You'll never guess what happened to me today!"

"You met a woman," he said, leaning back in his chair.

"I met a woman," Wilton continued, oblivious to Devon's observation. "And what a woman! She's beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated –"

"And where did you happen upon this goddess?" he asked, smiling slightly.

"You'll never believe it! She's a representative of Ciberex Corporation."

"The one we're looking to buy out?" he asked, snapping his chair upright.

"The very same. I had a business luncheon with one of their associates to negotiate the sale, and the representative they sent was _her_!"

"Oh Lord," he said, resting his forehead against his hand.

"What?" Wilton asked, frowning.

"_You_," Devon said, leveling a look at Wilton. "Negotiating with a beautiful woman is _not_ one of your talents."

"Since when?" he demanded.

"Since the last time which was…" Devon pointedly checked his desk calendar. "Two months ago."

"She was a skilled negotiator."

"There was no negotiating to it! You gave her whatever she wanted!"

"Yeah, but she returned the favor," he said with a sly grin, "and I seem to remember a few meetings you had that became quite an…affair, shall we say?"

Devon flushed and rolled his eyes. "Just remember which company is buying out which company," he said and returned to the paperwork on his desk.

Wilton watched him for a few moments. "Don't you even want to know what her name is?"

"No."

"Elizabeth Snow," he said, getting a far-away look in his eyes. "A gorgeous name for a gorgeous woman. I invited her to the party tomorrow night."

This time Devon looked up. "What party?"

"The one we're having."

"When did this come about?" he asked flipping through his planner.

"This morning."

Devon closed the book and pinched bridge of his nose. "Wilton, you cannot put together a gathering like that in a mere forty-eight hours. It's impossible!"  
"For you, nothing is impossible!" Wilton said enthusiastically and clapped his friend on the back before walking out of the room.

By the time Devon could refuse, the other man was gone. "I'm beginning to see how those idiots managed to win the Revolutionary War," he muttered and searched the phone book for a caterer.

KRKRKRKR

Devon stood away from the crowd and watched the guests mingle with each other. Some took advantage of the dance floor and moved to the music. Normally, he would be among them, mixing business with pleasure. He knew how to play the game. However, at the moment, he didn't feel like dealing with the false smiles, the double-talk, or the ready business cards. In fact, he really didn't feel like the party. No, he wasn't looking for more contracts. He was more concerned with Wilton's new love interest.

Wilton Knight was not bad-looking, nor was he ever without a date for a social function. He was constantly falling head-over-heels for every pretty girl that paid him the least bit of attention and even those who did not. Still, there was something different about this relationship. There was something different about Wilton as well. He only wished he could place it.

"Devon! Why are you staying by yourself?" Wilton asked as he approached his friend. A beautiful woman walked beside him, her hand slipped delicately into the crook of his arm. Her long, dark red hair was pulled up into a tight bun, and her sleeveless black gown accented her petite frame. She carried herself with an air of grace, as if it were impossible for her to do anything socially wrong.

Devon set his glass of champagne on the table beside him and straightened as they approached. "I've been waiting for you," he answered. He turned to the woman. "You must be the lady that I've heard so much about," he said, placing a light kiss on the back of her hand, much, he knew, to Wilton's chagrin. "It's a pleasure to meet you Miss Snow, and may I say that you're as lovely as your name," he said charmingly.

"My business associate, Devon Miles," Wilton said, a bit tightly.

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Miles," she said cordially. She smiled slightly. "I wish I could say I was as aware of you as you apparently are of me."

"Well, I would have talked about him," Wilton said, "but I thought, why ruin a perfectly good day?"

"I love your accent, Mr. Miles," she said, ignoring Wilton's comment. "What part of England are you from?"

"Argyle," he answered. "My family's estate is there."

"I've been there. A lovely part of the country," she said.

Hearing the music shift to a waltz, Devon asked, "Would you care to dance?"

"Very much," she said. She slipped her hand out of Wilton's arm and took Devon's hand, allowing him to guide her to the dance floor.

KRKRKRKR

Wilton searched the second floor of the mansion, briefly peering into different rooms as he passed. He was still dressed in his tuxedo, but his jacket and collar were unbuttoned, and his bowtie was stuffed uncaringly into his pocket. He stopped in the doorway to his office. Spotting his associate, soon to be ex-associate, he turned and marched through the office and onto the balcony. "Did you enjoy yourself?" Wilton asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Devon turned at his voice. "A little, I suppose," he answered and returned to staring out across the land.

"A little?" Wilton demanded, stepping in front of Devon. "You spent the entire evening with Elizabeth, dancing almost every dance with her, and you enjoyed yourself _a little_?"

Devon shrugged and moved to the other end of the balcony. He rested his hands on the wall and leaned forward. "She's a very…cultured woman."

"So? What's that have to do with anything?" Wilton asked and crossed his arms.

"It may have a lot to do with you," he said, turning to face him and resting against the wall. He paused, considering his words. "I don't think she's really your type."

"And whose type is she? Yours?" he asked heatedly.

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't have the least bit of interest in her," he said, brushing away Wilton's concerns with a wave of his hand.

"Then why did you say that?" he demanded, not believing him.

He sighed. "Wilton, I am first and foremost your friend. I would no more intentionally do anything to undermine your relationship with a woman than you would mine. Yes, she is very charming, and yes, she is quite beautiful, and yes, she is pleasant company. I just don't think she's the woman for you."

"Why? Because I'm not 'cultured'?" he asked, both hurt and angry. "Because I don't have 'proper breeding'?"

"That's not what I meant-"

"Then tell me why, Devon! Tell me why I can't have a woman like that!" Devon opened his mouth to respond, but Wilton didn't give him the chance. "You know, I honestly thought you were different, but you're just like the rest of them with old money. You look down your nose at me, and you consider me to be some sort of inferior being just because I had to work to make my fortune. Well, I have news for you, Miles. I have just as much right to date Elizabeth as anyone else, and I can marry her too!"

Devon stared at him in surprise. "Wilton, you can't be serious!"

"I'm dead serious!" he exclaimed, his voice steadily rising. "Yesterday, I asked her to be my wife, and she accepted, and there is nothing that you, or anyone else can do about it!" With that, Wilton turned on his heel and stormed into the office, slamming the door behind him so hard that the glass on the French doors rattled.

Devon felt like he had been punched in the stomach. Wilton Knight marry Elizabeth Snow? It was wrong! All wrong! He began to pace from one end of the balcony to the other like a caged animal. He should have been more tactful. The impression he had given Wilton was the exact opposite of what he had intended. It wasn't Wilton who wasn't good enough for her; it was _she_ who wasn't good enough for Wilton.

His family's prestigious background had allowed him to mingle with some of the richest and most pompous families in England. He learned to see through the masks projected and knew when someone wasn't who they said they were. While he had no doubt that Elizabeth was cultured, as he had put it, she was also extremely shallow. The vital piece of information that Devon simply couldn't bear to tell his friend was that the reason he had spent a great deal of the party with Elizabeth was because he simply couldn't get away from her. She was worse than a tigress on the prowl. The only thing that had finally deterred her was when Devon subtly mentioned that Wilton was the one who ran the company. He was simply an employee – which wasn't quite true, but it had worked. He had seen her for what she was. She was drawn to power, money, and charm, in that order, or else Devon would never have been able to get rid of her.

Devon stopped pacing and bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was no use arguing with Wilton now. It would only make him more determined. Worse, it would probably cost him the only real friendship Devon had ever had, and Wilton would still marry her. On the other side, if he didn't say anything, then he would be letting Wilton make the biggest mistake of his life. _What was he to do? What in Heaven's name was he to do?_

KRKRKRKR

"Wilton," Devon acknowledged as he sat down at the table on the patio. On warm, pleasant mornings they often preferred to eat breakfast outside.

Wilton pointedly ignored him, and turned the page in the newspaper, snapping it open.

"Thank you," Devon said to the maid as she sat the plate in front of him and poured tea into the cup. Coffee in the morning was an American habit he found he could not stomach. He looked at Wilton, or rather, the paper between them. Averting his eyes back to his tea, he lifted the creamer and tipped it briefly over the cup. The spoon tinkling against the china seemed to echo in the silence. Finally, he sat the spoon on the saucer. Taking a sip of the warm liquid, he returned the cup to the saucer and toyed with the handle.

"Do you love her?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"Would it matter to you if I did?" Wilton retorted, his words biting.

"Yes," he answered, keeping his eyes averted toward the steaming cup.

Wilton slowly lowered the paper, folding it closed. "Yes, I love her."

"You'll, um, need a best man." He raised his eyes to meet his friend's.

"It's usually customary. Do you know of someone who might be interested?"

"I might." He toyed with the handle again. "Unfortunately, he has a way of putting his foot in his mouth." He returned his eyes to Wilton. "I'm sorry for what I said last night. I had no right to say it."

"No, you didn't." He snapped the paper open again and continued reading.

Devon sighed. He had tried, but it appeared that Wilton was going to hold a grudge. Having lost his appetite, he sat the napkin on the table and started to rise.

"Do you think you can hold onto the ring without losing it?" Wilton asked, lowering the paper again, a small smile on his face.

Devon returned it. "I'll certainly try."

KRKRKRKR

"You may kiss the bride," the pastor said, closing the book.

Wilton turned to his new wife and lifted the veil before leaning in and kissing her tenderly. Devon forced himself not to shake his head and sent up a silent prayer that he would be proven wrong about the entire thing. Never before in his life had he wished so hard for himself to be wrong.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great honor for me to present for the very first time, Mr. and Mrs. Wilton Knight."

The congregation clapped enthusiastically for the new couple. Devon hesitated, and then also clapped.


	8. Chapter 8

"Daddy's home!" five-year-old Garthe Knight called out excitedly as he jumped off of the couch and ran from the family room to the front doors. His older sister, Jennifer Knight, followed, her longer strides allowing her to beat him to the door.

Wilton opened the door and found himself besieged by the children as they clamored for attention. He sat his suitcase and briefcase down on either side of him, lifted the little boy into his arms, and then knelt down to hug his daughter.

"Did ya bring us anything, Daddy?" the little girl asked eagerly, jumping up and down in anticipation.

"Now what makes you think I brought you anything?" he asked sternly.

"Because you always do!" Garthe chirped.

Wilton glanced from one child to the other, and then nodded at the suitcase.

"Yea!" they exclaimed and, together, dragged the heavy suitcase further into the entryway.

"Oh dear. There goes another suitcase," Devon said as he stepped inside in time to see the two children open the case and pull out two brightly wrapped packages and practically shred the paper to get to the toys.

"To see the looks on their faces, it's worth it," Wilton said.

"Whoa, neat!" Garthe exclaimed, holding up a toy car.

"Thanks, Daddy!" Jennifer said, hugging the China doll to her chest.

"Welcome back, darling," Elizabeth said, walking up to her husband and giving him a kiss. "Devon," she acknowledged, pulling back.

"Elizabeth," he said cordially yet coldly.

She snaked her arms around Wilton's neck. "The children have been so anxious for you to return home. All they can talk about is the fishing trip you promised them."

Wilton glanced at Devon, who thought it best to make a hasty exit. "Come along, Garthe, Jennifer," he said, urging them out of the room.

"Uncle Devon?" Garthe asked, looking up at him as they reached the hallway past the stairs.

"Yes?"

"Are Mommy and Daddy gonna fight again?"

Devon glanced behind him and then down at the little boy. "I'm sure they just want some time alone."

"Why?"

"Well…"

"Don't be such a baby," Jennifer chided her brother. "Grownups like being by themselves."

"But why?"

"Because…because that's how grownups are," she said airily.

"Oh," he said, accepting his sister's vague answer.

Devon just smiled and shook his head. If only adults were as easily satisfied by such answers! Hearing the raised voices, he quickly suggested, "You know, it's such a nice day, why don't we go outside?" He opened the rear door and nearly pushed the two out ahead of him, closing it quickly behind him.

"They're fighting again, aren't they?" Garthe asked sadly.

Before he could answer, Jennifer walked up to them, carrying a baseball. "Wanna play catch with us, Uncle Devon?" She motioned for him to bend down to her level, and she whispered in his ear, "You know, to distract him. Garthe's too young to understand, you know?"

His lips twitched, but he forced himself to remain serious, and he nodded. "Of course," he whispered back and led the children out into the large yard to play.

"Wilton, you promised!" Elizabeth said angrily.

"I know, dear, and I'm sorry," he said sincerely, "but this meeting in Denver is important."

"Just like every other meeting," she said in frustration. "I hardly ever see you anymore! You're even a stranger to your own children!"

"That's not fair, Elizabeth. I work hard to provide for this family, and the company is finally taking off. I can't just sit back now!"

"But you can neglect your family – and me!"

"I am trying my best!"

"Well, it's not good enough!"

"What would you rather I do? Let everything fall apart?"

"Why can't you send Devon?"

"I can't throw everything on his shoulders! It's not fair!"

"Why not? That's what you pay him for, isn't it?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"Elizabeth!"

"Well, isn't it?" she demanded.

"No, it most certainly is not! He is my associate. He _assists_ me. He is not the head of this company, and the companies expect to see _me_. Wilton Knight."

"What about what I want? Doesn't that matter at all to you?"

"Of course it matters to me!"

"Then prove it!"

"How?"

"Go on the trip with us. Send Devon, cancel the meeting, I don't care. Just don't go!"

The pleading look and the desperation in her voice tore at his heart, and he felt himself begin to deflate. "This is a very important meeting. Several companies have been looking to step in and buy out this company right from under us. It wouldn't be right to leave this on Devon's shoulders."

"He could handle it," she insisted. "You're always telling me how brilliant he is when it comes to business matters."

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought you worried that I was giving him too much responsibility."

"Oh, that," she said, waving her hand as if brushing away the words. "It was a rough day. Please, darling, will you do it?" She held him tightly and rested her head on his chest. "Please?"

He relented. "I suppose he could handle it this once…" His sentence was cut off as she threw her arms around his neck and rose up to kiss him. "Wow," he said breathlessly as he pulled back. "We need to get away more often!"

She smiled. "It means a lot to me, darling," she said, tracing her finger along his jaw. She kissed him again and then pulled back. "Why don't you tell the children? I'm sure they'll be thrilled."

He nodded. "All right," he said and leaned down and drew another kiss. "But I'll be back."

"And I'll be waiting," she said seductively. "Now shoo!" She watched him walk and then jog toward the rear of the mansion.

She was about to ascend the stairs when a voice said from the bottom stair, "You will be going this time, I hope?"

She turned, her hands loosely grasping the dark walnut banister. Devon stood beside the stairs, looking up at her. "What on earth is that supposed to mean?" she asked.

"I think you know _exactly_ what it means," he said, his eyes hard. "You guilt him into some sort of trip, and then you suddenly come down with an illness. Let's see, I think the last one was a migraine, wasn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she huffed, throwing her chin into the air and climbing upwards.

Devon reached up and pressed his hand against hers, pinning it to the banister. "You're a married woman, Elizabeth. You have two children. Wilton adores you. Why? Why do you do it?"

She snatched her hand away. "You are hardly one to be talking of morals, Devon Miles." With that, she climbed the stairs and turned down the hall to her bedroom, slamming the door. She paced the length of the room angrily and then stopped at the window, watching the steadily graying sky. A hundred thoughts flew through her mind, and most she could push away. There was one thought, however, that would not be deterred: _he knew_. She supposed it didn't matter how. It only mattered that he did, and she had to decide what she was going to do about it. What she was going to do about _him_. He was too smart and too dangerous. It wouldn't be much longer before he finally had enough and told Wilton what he knew. He had been a thorn in her side since the day they had met, and she had been longing for a way to sever the strong friendship between her husband and his associate. It appeared that she would have to do something about it sooner rather than later.

"_You are hardly one to be talking of morals, Devon Miles."_ Oh yes, she had seen how he watched her. He was no more immune to her beauty than any of the others. She could have had any man she wanted, but she chose money. On the other hand, Devon could have any woman he wanted, and he usually did. He was a player just like she was. However, she was married. He was not. And he knew her secret.

Turning, she walked over to the king-sized canopy bed and lifted the receiver from its cradle on the bedstand beside it. A phonebook sat conveniently beside the phone, and she flipped through it with one hand, stopping at the number she had been searching for. Dialing the number, she tapped her foot impatiently as she listened to the buzzing ring at the other end. "Hello? Yes, I would like to confirm a reservation under the name Devon Miles…Yes, I'll hold," she said, annoyed. She mentally praised herself for keeping track of both Wilton's and Devon's business, even behind their backs. She knew it would come in handy someday. She tapped her foot again, and then grabbed a pencil, listening as she wrote on the small white pad. "Mm-hmm…Mm-hmm…Room 1923. Thank you." She hung up the phone and tapped the pencil against her jaw, her smile tainted by the ruthlessness behind it.

To anyone who had never heard of the company, Smith and Smith, Incorporated sounded like a legal firm, but to those in the technology market, they knew it employed some of the brightest minds in the world. While it may never appear in the papers beside names like IBM, the ideas that emerged from its think tank were scooped up by the larger companies for hundreds of thousands of dollars. Some of those ideas were no more than a sketch on a napkin, but what they led to was sometimes so powerful that, like the government had initially done to Wilton Knight, they were classified and hidden far away from public view. Then, in a move that shocked many, the company was up for sale. The owners were twin brothers who had supposedly grown tired of the corporate games and wanted to take their millions and move to Rio de Janeiro. Millions that at least eleven other companies, aside from Knight Industries, were willing to pay.

KRKRKRKR

Devon sank onto the soft couch in his suite and stared at a strangely fascinating spot on the opposite wall. The meeting had struck him as one of professional desperation, if ever there was such a thing. Men in suits sat around a table, all wearing poker faces to hide their eagerness to outbid their opponents and snatch the company. The offers were becoming more and more extravagant, and Knight Industries, while powerful in its own right, was but a drop in the ocean compared to one like IBM. He had long since pushed past the set price he and Wilton had agreed to pay, and he knew that he was taking an enormous risk in continuing the dealings with the stakes rising higher and higher. Smith and Smith, Incorporated, if acquired, would propel Knight Industries into the twenty-first century with its space-age ideas, but if he dug Knight Industries in too deep a hole, then the future wouldn't matter because the company would collapse.

A knock at the door startled Devon from his thoughts, but he was still slow in pushing himself from the couch. The meeting had worn him down, and he was reluctant to converse with anyone else tonight. Striding to the door, he opened it and was surprised at the unexpected visitor. "Elizabeth? What are you doing here?"

"Can I come in?" she asked, not bothering to hide her enjoyment at his flabbergasted stare.

He wordlessly opened the door wider and stepped out of her path.

"Thank you," she said and entered the room, taking it in with one glance. The space was well portioned, and there was no doubt that it cost quite a bit. However, she was used to the finer things, and she felt it unworthy of even a second look. Besides, she hadn't come to admire his lodgings. She had a purpose.

"You didn't answer my question," he said, closing the door and turning to her. His voice was intentionally far from welcoming. "Did you confuse my room with someone else's?"

"That's a cheap shot," she snapped, stepping further into the room.

"But not unwarranted," he retorted.

She glared at him. "I came here to help you."

"_Help_ me?" He barked out a humorless laugh. "How on earth could _you_ possibly help _me_?"

She eyed him and sauntered to the end of the sofa where a small table sat, containing a decanter of brandy. Pouring herself a small amount in a snifter, she sipped the dark amber liquid. Purposely taking her time, she lowered the glass and cupped it in both her hands. Finally, she said, "I understand that you've having a little trouble with the negotiations."

"What do you know about that?" he asked, drawing himself up indignantly.

"You needn't swell up like a toad, Devon," she said condescendingly. "I made a few inquiries as to who would be there. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that you're in over your head."

He scowled. "If you've come here to gloat…" He reached for the doorknob.

"I told you that I came here to help."

"You have a funny way of helping," he said, but released the knob.

"In case you've forgotten, I was a pretty shrewd businesswoman before I became Mrs. Wilton Knight, and I know how to secure that company."

He eyed her skeptically. "How? I've already promised them the moon."

"Ah, but haven't you ever heard that it's all in the presentation?" she asked, pouring another glass of brandy and holding it out to him. When he hesitated, she shook it slightly. "It's not poisoned, Devon."

"I wouldn't put it past you." he said warily but accepted it.

She sighed in exasperation. "Look, I'm trying to be nice, but you're making it difficult."

"I thought you were supposed to be with Wilton," he said flatly, taking the glass from her.

"I'd rather be here," she said, her voice softening ever so slightly.

He choked on the brandy, fighting the urge to spit it back into his glass. Instead, he swallowed quickly, the burning sensation traveling down his throat and hitting his stomach with the force of a brick. "I-I beg your pardon?" he stammered.

"Negotiating," she continued as if nothing had happened.

"Oh…of course," he said, setting the drink on the coffee table by his side. "This…_presentation_ you mentioned…what exactly does that include?"

"It's not difficult," she said, closing the distance between them. "I did my homework on its owners. They're young, naïve, and would just as soon spend time on the beach ogling bikini-clad women than sit in a corporate office. A little wining… a little dining…a little feminine manipulation…" She traced her finger delicately down the side of his cheek and smiled at the shiver it elicited.

He cleared his throat and backed away uncomfortably. "It's too underhanded."

"What's underhanded about it?" she asked innocently. "The only difference between what _I _do and what _you _do is that _I_ have a greater advantage when it comes to handling two single men. Why not use it?" She sidled up to him. "Or perhaps you'd rather cost Knight Industries the chance of a lifetime?"

Once again he stepped away from her and walked around the couch, deliberately keeping the piece of furniture between them. "Your _negotiations _had better not go any farther than a restaurant," he warned.

She stayed silent, allowing the comment to slide without reproach.

He sighed and looked away, considering her offer. For the life of him, he could not understand what had possessed her to help him. As far as he was concerned, and he was pretty sure that she felt the same way, they were enemies, but neither one dared to underestimate the other's intelligence. Normally, Elizabeth would have loved to see Devon screw up, and he had no doubt that she would dance on his grave when he died. Why was she making such an offer? And why was she so friendly? Still, whether he liked it or not, she was just the edge that he desperately needed. He knew he would hate himself in the morning, but he said, "The next meeting is tomorrow morning at nine o'clock."

"Tomorrow will be too late," she said, snatching the phone from the coffee table. She sent him another smile. "We'll handle it tonight... leaving you and me to celebrate our victory afterwards."

KRKRKRKR

Soft classical music from a live trio on stage drifted across the restaurant, mixing in with the low hum of conversation rather than drowning it out. In a small corner beside a large window overlooking the city of Denver and the mountains beyond sat two people at a candlelit table, laughing as they clinked their wine glasses together in a toast.

"With the acquisition of Smith and Smith, Knight Industries will be well on its way to the top," Elizabeth said, pleased with herself.

"I have to admit, I didn't think you would be able to do it," Devon said, returning his glass to the table.

"I told you, Devon. I have an advantage that you don't. I'm a woman."

"I don't think it took either of them long to figure that out." He dabbed his lips with his napkin and sat it beside his plate. He leaned back in his chair and eyed her.

"What?" she asked, shifting uncomfortably under his scrutinizing gaze.

"I suddenly realized that you've avoided my question twice. I thought you were going on a fishing trip with your family." He added an extra emphasis on the word "family".

"I was going, but I found out who you were up against, so I made a slight detour."

"_Slight_? It's in the opposite direction."

She traced her finger along the rim of the glass, staring at the remaining white wine. Finally, she sighed and raised her eyes to his. "You really can't stand me, can you? You try to hide it, but the fact is, you hate me."

"I would never say that."

"No, you wouldn't because I'm your best friend's wife. That's the only reason you put up with me. I have to admit, I haven't given you much of a reason to like me."

"You haven't given me _any_ reason," he said, turning serious.

"I'm trying."

"Why? Why do you all of a sudden care about my opinion of you?"

She paused, as if gathering herself to make an enormous revelation. "Devon, do you remember the night we met?"

"Unfortunately."

She frowned. "I'm trying to have an honest conversation with you!" she said, frustrated.

He stayed silent, biting his tongue on the retort that almost made it past his lips.

"The truth is, Devon, the reason that I've always been at odds with you is because…I'm afraid of you."

"Afraid of me?" he asked, unable to stop himself from repeating her words. He had expected many statements, but that was not one of them.

She nodded, her face showing clearly the difficulty of her admission. "I'm very fond of Wilton. I always have been…but he's not the man I love."

Feeling the feather-light pressure on his hand, he angled his head down and saw her hand resting on his. He jerked his hand away as if it had been burned. "This conversation – and evening – is over," he said flatly and pushed himself from the table.

"Devon, wait!" she pleaded.

He paused, his face unreadable, but remained turned away from her.

"I've tried to deny it, to be the wife that Wilton wants me to be, but I _can't_. I tried to convince myself that I despised you in the hopes that my real feelings would go away, but they won't. I can't deny them any longer. Why do you continue to deny yours?"

He stood, his body completely rigid. A hundred things that he could say were held at bay by shock. He only hoped that the turmoil within him was hidden from her. Finally, without a single word, he walked away, but, unbeknownst to her…he did glance back.


	9. Chapter 9

"Save me save me save me!" Garthe shrieked as he burst into Wilton's office. The little boy squeezed between his father's legs and the desk, forcing his way into the crevice where he couldn't be seen.

Wilton was just about to question his son when a soggy Englishman stormed into the office, a long frown on his face. He couldn't help but stifle a grin, and it took all his willpower to say with a straight face, "You're dripping on my carpet, Devon."

Devon glared at him. "I am well aware of that fact, thank you," he said tightly. He looked about the office and demanded, "_Where is he_?"

"Who?" Wilton asked blankly.

He narrowed his eyes and approached the desk. "_Your son_."

"Garthe? Does he have something to do with the fact that you took a shower with your clothes on?" His lips were twitching, and it was becoming increasingly harder not to laugh.

"I _did not_ take a shower with my clothes on. Nor was there an errant thundercloud following me, as I'm sure that will be your next guess."

Wilton covered his accidental laugh with a cough, but judging by the look on Devon's face, it hadn't worked. "Okay, I give up. What happened?"

"It was a garden hose," he said, as if that should explain everything.

"He sprayed you with a garden hose?"

"Well…not exactly, but it was his fault," he said petulantly, crossing his arms.

"I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate, Devon."

He released a suffering sigh and returned his arms to his sides. "I was walking outside when I noticed that your son was trying to help the gardener water the flowers."

"With a hose, I hope?"

Devon rolled his eyes. "Yes, with a hose. However, the hose did not appear to be working."

"So you naturally offered to help?" Wilton surmised.

"Of course I offered to help! And this is what I get for it!" He gestured at his wet suit.

"_Then_ he sprayed you?"

"No, the little twit gave me the hose," he growled.

"That sounds like a perfectly natural thing to do," he said, no longer able to hide the small grin.

"Yes, but what I didn't know is, _your son_ had a section of the hose bent with his other hand. I thought there might be a clog, so my natural reaction was to check…" He stopped at Wilton's sudden coughing fit and then continued, "…and he released the hose."

The coughs turned into unhindered guffaws.

"It isn't funny!" Devon said indignantly, drawing himself up to his full height.

Wilton struggled to bring himself under control, wiping his eyes. "No, of course not," he said in a poor imitation of Devon's accent, and then continued in a normal voice under his friend's severe look, "But you have to admit, you did just get outwitted by a five-year-old."

"You're _condoning_ this?"

"No, I'll take care of it," he said, still stifling snickers. "But would you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Go change clothes. You're starting to mould," he said and snickered again.

Devon turned on his heel and stalked out, having a heated conversation with the ceiling the entire way out of the office. Sobering, Wilton pushed his chair back so that he could view his son, who was watching him with intense interest. "All right. Come out from there."

Garthe slowly pulled himself out from beneath the desk, averting his eyes toward the floor at his father's suddenly stern tone. "Did you do what Uncle Devon says you did?"

He nodded.

"May I ask why?"

He raised his blue eyes to meet his father's. "I just wanted to make him laugh. Jennifer said that practical jokes always make people laugh."

He creased his eyebrows. "Why did you want to make him laugh?"

"Because he doesn't laugh no more, and he won't play with us," he whined. "He's no fun!"

Wilton lifted his son onto his knee. "Your Uncle Devon's been very busy lately," he explained. "Knight Industries requires a lot of effort on both his and my part. He probably doesn't have the time."

"He has the time," Garthe insisted. "He just doesn't want to play."

"And how do you know this?"

"He always has time for Mommy," he said, jutting out his lower lip in a full fledge pout.

Wilton's earlier humor vanished. "What do you mean, 'has time for Mommy'?"

He shrugged. "They're always doing stuff together."

"Like what?" he pressed.

"Go places, talk and stuff."

"Is that so?" he asked, leaning back in the chair.

"Daddy…Am I in trouble?"

He sighed. "No son. You're heart was in the right place, but let's leave Uncle Devon alone for now, all right?"

"Okay. I sure hope he gets in a better mood though." He then added brightly, "He was a really great pitcher!"

"Mm-hmm," he said distractedly. He knew he had been spending a lot of time in his office lately, which meant that despite cutting back on the number of business trips, he still found himself spending an exceptional amount of time with his work. Devon and Elizabeth had been at odds ever since the wedding. Out of deference to Wilton, Devon refrained from mentioning anything disparaging in front of him, but Elizabeth continually pestered him about why he was allowing Devon so much free rein with the company. Why would they be spending so much time together all of a sudden? Or was it all of a sudden?

"Daddy?"

"Yes son?" he asked, pulling himself from his thoughts.

"Would I get in trouble for something I did before you told me not to?"

"Why do you ask?"

He looked up at the sound of the loud splash and a yelp, followed by Devon shouting, "That's _two_ suits!"

KRKRKRKR

"I'm telling you, Elizabeth, it's not going to work!" Devon argued emphatically, rising from his desk and circling it to where she stood beside an easel where large poster boards were propped.

"Well, why not?" she huffed. She turned her slender frame to the boards, her right arm pressed in her cupped hand, and her finger rested against her jaw as she studied the diagrams and bulleted items.

Devon stood beside her. "First of all, if we place Donaldson by Crosby, we're going to end up with one major fight, and words aren't going to be the only thing they'll be throwing at each other."

"Honestly," she said, rolling her eyes at the images. "Do you expect me to believe that two top businessmen would be reduced to food-flinging idiots?"

"I would if you knew that Donaldson is divorcing his wife after he caught Crosby sleeping with her."

She stared at the large rectangle representing the formal dining table and at the names taped to various spots. She smiled mischievously. "It would liven things up a bit, don't you think?"

Try as he might, he couldn't quite keep the smirk off his own face. "Well, it would be interesting," he admitted.

She snickered. At Devon's quizzical look, she said, "I was just picturing the ensuing food fight."

He raised an eyebrow. "I could just see you hurling the mashed potatoes," he said dryly.

She laughed even harder, and he joined her. Had they not been so caught up in the joviality of the moment, they would have seen Wilton duck quickly out of the doorway. He leaned against the wall, resting his head against the hard surface as he closed his eyes. He told himself that the entire scene was innocent, but he still wondered. It seemed like ages since he had heard his wife laugh, or even see her smile, for that matter. Come to think of it, he rarely saw her anymore. It wasn't fair to blame her. After all, he was the one that had spent hours upon hours running his company, but were the fruits of his labors costing him the one he loved? He roughly pushed himself away from the wall and walked downstairs, his features deeply troubled.

KRKRKRKR

Elizabeth sat in front of the boutique, perusing through the small, wooden jewelry box for the perfect pair of earrings to match the emerald green dress she wore. It was one-of-a-kind, with a high, wide neck that opened past her shoulders to reveal her back. The skirt of the dress was covered in layers of chiffon that gave the illusion of movement even when its wearer was stationary.

"Perhaps these will do?" Wilton asked deeply, reaching his arm around his wife to reveal an open jewelry case. He was also dressed for a formal occasion in a black tuxedo, his bowtie tied centered neatly at his collar.

She gasped. Each earring consisted of a tiny trail of diamonds that descended to the large emerald and encircled itself around the stone. "Oh Wilton, they're…they're beautiful!" She rose quickly from her seat and threw her arms around his neck, pressing her lips against his in a long, sensuous kiss. She then pulled back and eagerly sat the case on the glass top, deftly slipping the earrings through her lobes and securing them with the backing. She turned her head from side to side in admiration and then straightened, turning back to her husband. "I don't know what to say! I never expected-"

He silenced her by placing his forefinger lightly on her lips. "You don't have to say anything," he said, bending his head down toward her as he cupped her face in his hands. Again his lips met hers, and she responded with equal fervor. He was reluctant to break the touch, but there were other matters at hand. Besides, there was always the night. This time it was he who pulled away. "Our guests will be arriving soon," he said apologetically.

She reached up and lightly brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers. "Then let's hope that they leave early," she purred.

He caught her hand and kissed it before reluctantly releasing her. He chided himself for harboring such dark thoughts earlier that day, reassured by her reaction. He had completely exaggerated the harmless flirting and had let his five-year-old son unknowingly convince him that his marriage was in jeopardy. He grinned at the thought. He was even beginning to think that he owed Devon an apology though the Englishman was completely oblivious to his worries.

As they descended the stairs to the ground floor, he felt his wife hesitate and her hand stiffen as it rested around his elbow. Stopping, he followed her line of sight and saw Devon directing the staff in the final preparations for the big night. Sensing her husband's watchfulness, Elizabeth gave Wilton a smile and continued smoothly down the stairs as if nothing had happened. He fought to keep from bristling when Devon caught sight of them and kissed her hand, complementing her on her attire. Something strange was going on, and he became determined to get to the bottom of it.

Wilton wasn't certain how he made it through the dinner. He knew he'd never remember the events of the evening. He had been too busy watching his wife and Devon, who sat at different areas of the table but still caught each other's eyes every now and again. A part of him warned him not to overreact; that it would cost him dearly should he allow such childish jealousy to get out of hand. Devon had remained a true friend and an honest associate over the several years that they had known each other. He was even the children's godfather. How could he doubt the man that had stood by him even when Knight Industries was nothing more than a few ideas on notebook paper? Yet there was something about the way she watched him when she thought that no one was looking. Devon, though much more concealing in his features, did not exactly discourage it either. Was it his overactive imagination, or should he truly be worried? He had been so confident upstairs, but, then again, she had also just received an extravagant gift.

No, he decided, squelching that dangerous line of thought. He was overworked and overtired, and it had stemmed from nothing more than a child's innocent observations. Whatever was going on, he knew that he had to maintain his trust in his wife and his best friend. Though it wouldn't hurt if he paid a little more attention to life outside his office…

KRKRKRKR

"Let me see if I understand this correctly," Devon said, shuffling through a handful of papers. The notes were rough and the scribbles were sloppy, but after many years of practice deciphering Wilton's "chicken scratches", he was able to gather enough clues to ascertain a reasonable assumption. Whereas other companies drew up highly detailed plans, Wilton's ideas somehow jumped from the back of a napkin or scrap paper into a prototype. "This is a computer?"

Wilton snatched the papers out of Devon's hands. "Not _just_ a computer!" he said in exasperation. He leaned against the front of his desk. "This is going to be one of the most advanced pieces of technology in the world!"

Devon tugged on his earlobe, carefully keeping a straight face. "It looked like a computer to me."

Wilton sent him a Look. Holding the papers in both hands, he turned them so that Devon could see the handwriting. "If there is one thing that the government likes, it is paperwork, but the feds rarely like doing it all themselves – well, the sane ones don't. This machine is going to do it for them!"

He frowned. "I thought you wanted nothing more to do with the government after they took your plane."

"I don't. It's the poor peons who get stuck with the paperwork that I feel sorry for."

"So, voila! You send them a miracle machine."

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"That whole I'm-British-so-I'm-better accent." He slapped the papers down on the desk.

"I don't do that!"

"Then how come your accent thickens every time you do that?"

"I don't _have_ an accent. The ones with accents are you and every other bloody Yank in this country who slaughter the King's English!"

"First of all, I am _not_ a 'Yank'. And second of all, we do not _slaughter the King's English_," he repeated in a bad imitation of Devon's accent. He continued in a normal voice, "We improved so that we could understand each other!"

"Considering the dip in the American IQ, I can see why!"

Wilton opened his mouth to make a sharp retort, but he embarrassedly realized that he didn't have one. "All right, all right," he said, holding up his hand. "There's no point in wasting time with a ridiculous argument."

"My thoughts exactly," Devon said, still indignant. He couldn't resist adding, "I _don't_ have an accent."

Wilton rolled his eyes but let it slide. This new project was too important for bickering to get in the way. "Have you ever heard of artificial intelligence?"

"Are you setting me up for an insult?" he asked suspiciously, crossing his arms.

"No, I'm not setting you up for an insult. It's an honest question."

"Then, no, I have not heard of artificial intelligence." Unable to help his curiosity, he asked, "What is it?"

Wilton smiled. "I'm glad you asked!" He hurried around his desk and began to sort through cluttered drawers, pulling out anything from papers to children's toys. "It's here somewhere…ah-ha!" He pulled out a newspaper article clipped from an unidentifiable paper. He stretched his arm across the desk, practically thrusting it at the man.

Devon accepted it, and, after a wary glance to his friend, scanned it. Somewhere through the article, the scanning shifted into reading, and he handed the clipping back to Wilton. "A learning machine?" he asked.

"Not a _machine_. A computer language. It's a whole new concept," he said excitedly. "Actually, there's two different languages, but they both appear to be very promising: LISP, or List Processing. LISP has been around at least ten years, but I hadn't heard about it until I found this article in the paper last Sunday."

"It isn't a very big article," Devon observed.

"That's because the general population could care less – right now, that is. This breakthrough in learning algorithms could…well, it could revolutionize the world!"

"What do sophisticated machines – _languages_," he corrected himself before Wilton could, "have to do with paperwork?"

"I've been doing some research into their possible applications."

"Are you going to try to appropriate them?"

"No, they still have a long way to go before they can be of any use to us…but it did give me an idea. I'm going to create my own AI."

"To do paperwork?" he asked in disbelief.

"Well, it won't be a true sentient being. There's no way that could ever happen. The best a machine will ever do is piece enough information together to relieve humans of the simplistic, mind-numbing tasks."

"Like paperwork."

"Exactly."

"But, Wilton, you don't have the rights to LIST."

"It's _LISP._"

"What_ever_. It's still not ours."

"Who said that I was going to use it? I'm going to create my own based on an entirely different concept. That's what this is," he said, holding up the papers again. "It's a design for a bubble memory – the very core of this machine."

"I'd ask you to explain it, but I know I'd never understand," Devon answered, shaking his head, "but we still have a problem. What makes you so sure that your government wouldn't confiscate something like this as well?"

He smiled slyly. "I've already thought of that. There's going to be two sets of plans: the ones that we have, and the ones that they see."

"Isn't that fraud?"

"Fraud would be if we told them it was more powerful than what it really was. In this case, we're simply understating what it can do. They're actually getting the better end of the deal. We build them a machine, we retain the rights to it…we could even send out one of our own men with it to take care of it."

"I still don't see why you're so anxious to do this. Given the effort and time that would have to be put into it, the entire project would be a losing proposition."

"I don't care about the money, Devon," he said, sinking down into the chair. He leaned forward, interlocking his fingers and placing his hands on the desk. "I just want to see if it can be done."

"For paperwork."

"For now."

KRKRKRKR

"Not only is he drawing resources from key areas of the company, but he's pulling manpower away as well," Devon groused, strolling beside Elizabeth down the sidewalk that wound its way through the extensive moonlit grounds. Various flowerbeds and extensive gardens broke up the yard, creating a colorful scene during the daylight hours and an illusion of privacy at night. Small fountains, strategically placed, spurted water into the air, lulling the senses and drowning out the nighttime sounds with the constant, gentle babbling of running water. Ground lights, softened by the leaves hiding part of the glare from view, ensured the safety of those that chose a nighttime stroll and accented the beauty of the area rather than detracting from the peaceful scenery.

"Have you talked to him about the consequences?" Elizabeth asked, delicately slipping her hand through Devon's elbow and forcing him to slow his pace as she slowed her own.

He snorted. "I've tried. Several times. He's dead set on this project. I haven't seen him this obsessed with a project since…come to think of it, I have never seen him this obsessed with a project."

She sighed. "I know. I finally get him out of his office, and he spends it in the garage with the technicians." Seeing him watch her with mild concern, she smiled. "Oh, don't worry. I'm sure once this project is over things will go back to normal."

He found particular interest in a passing fountain as he said, "I'm sure you've found other ways to, um, occupy your time."

She stopped, letting go of him. "That was in the past, Devon," she said angrily. "Will you stop bringing it up?"

"I was merely making a comment," he said with a shrug and began to walk once more.

She quickly caught up to him. "I thought we had stopped this nonsense. I thought… I thought we had become friends." She stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop again. "Devon, please."

"It may be in the past, but it is a little hard to forget," he said, brushing past her.

She blocked him again. "You're one to talk! The only difference between you and me is that I had enough guts to admit the truth!"

"What truth?" he shot back. "The truth that you made a farce of your marriage? The truth that you care nothing about honor and commitment? I'm not even sure you know what truth is."

"Who are you to talk of honor and commitment?" she argued fiercely. "You hide behind your high and mighty attitude, but I see right through you, Devon Miles. You _want_ me. I see it in your eyes every time you look at me. You talk of truth? Fine. Tell me the truth. Do you love me?"

He drew back from her. "What I want or how I feel is not the issue!" he snapped. "You're not only a married woman; you're married to my best friend. To allow anything so underhanded would be the cruelest thing I could-" He was cut off by her passionate kiss. Feeling her so close aroused him so strongly that his brain was slow in consciously making him aware that he was returning the kiss with equal energy. It was wrong! He knew it was wrong, his conscience screamed at him, and he started to pull back, grabbing her shoulders to force her away though she fought against it. To his surprise, it was she who finally severed the contact, and he felt the sharp slap of her hand connecting with his cheek. He yelped, holding the left side of his face with his hand and trying to rub away the throb. "What was…" His voice trailed off when he realized that she wasn't staring at him, but _past _him, and he closed his eyes, not needing to turn around to know who was there.

Wilton stared in utter disbelief, the shock numbing his senses to the point that he could only see her lips move as she moved toward him to explain. He saw Devon slowly turn, a distinctly guilty look on his face that hurt him more than the previous moment he had witnessed. As the shock wore off, an intense, burning anger settled within him, and, for the first time in his life, he contemplated murder. How could Devon have done this to him? How could Wilton have allowed the man so close, only to be turned upon?

"Oh, Darling! I'm so glad you've come!" Elizabeth exclaimed, hurrying to her husband's side. She pointed at Devon. "He…he lured me out here…I thought he just wanted to talk, but then…" Tears started to fall down her cheeks, and she moved closer to Wilton as if seeking protection. "Then he…" Her voice dissolved into sobs and she buried her face in Wilton's shirt as he wrapped a protective arm around her.

"She's lying!" Devon exclaimed, furious not only with her for setting up the trap but at himself for not seeing it. "Wilton, you know that I would never-"

"Get out of my sight," he said, his tone ice-cold.

Devon's eyes fell to Elizabeth, who had turned her head to watch, a small smile playing on her lips since her husband's attention was on Devon. "You did this!" he exclaimed angrily at her.

The sobbing returned, and to Devon's consternation, Wilton twisted his body so that he was between her and Devon. "You saved my life once, which is the only reason that I'm not killing you now," Wilton growled, "but if you don't leave, I can't be held responsible for what I do next!"

Knowing he had no choice and hurt by Wilton's unreasonableness to even consider his side, Devon turned on his heel and continued down the sidewalk. His body became a shadow, and the shadow was swallowed by the night.

KRKRKRKR

No one knew where Devon went, and Wilton found that he didn't care. So long as the man never came within his sights again, it suited him perfectly. Actually, it would be harsh to say that it suited him. He would rather the incident never have occurred, but it had, and Elizabeth had cried the rest of the night and sporadically during the next day. She stayed in the bedroom, isolating herself from everyone, even him. It had obviously traumatized her, and he promised himself that if she wasn't better by the next morning, he would call a doctor. After all, her trust had been shattered as abruptly as his.

The children had noticed the Englishman's absence from the household, and Wilton had explained that he had returned to England to handle "family matters." It wasn't the best excuse, but it was the only one he could come up with at the time when his emotions were still rocketing between sadness, anger, and betrayal. Luckily, they were young enough to accept the excuse, although Garthe still lamented, "He sure was a great pitcher."

By the end of that week, things had finally started to settle down again, though he was very careful not to bring up what had happened. He had tried before, but every time he did, she became upset and left the room. He was still in the midst of creating the prototype for the new AI, but he found that his heart simply was in it no longer. Though he and Devon had dealt with opposite ends of the company, their paths seemed to constantly cross on company matters. Devon tended to follow a more conservative, cautious route, while Wilton willingly charged ahead, often oblivious to the consequences. His philosophy was that he had come a long way into building a successful company so he might as well enjoy it. Devon, however, warned him that it might not last, which was why they needed to be careful. Devon, also, was the brains behind Knight Industries' marketing success. For a man who had barely completed a year of the study of British law, his uncanny knack for handling business matters proved invaluable.

Then, like Todd, he had betrayed his friendship. Only this time, there was no old address to happen across, no doorstep to turn up on and ask for help. He bitterly observed the fact that Devon had at least not thrown him to the mercy of loan sharks. Aside from the loss of a best friend, he was also lost without a business associate, and since Wilton rarely involved himself in many of the underlying tasks Devon controlled, he found himself struggling to understand how to run a company while still working in research and development.

Thankfully, Elizabeth had stepped into Devon's role in the business. She had appeared hesitant at first, explaining to her husband that it had been quite a while since she had been involved in business matters, but, with Wilton's encouragement, she fulfilled her duties expertly and efficiently. Yet it just wasn't the same. With a heavy heart, he knew it would never be the same.

KRKRKRKR

Elizabeth was extremely pleased with herself. Not only had she succeeded in destroying what seemed to be an unbreakable friendship, she had gotten rid of the only person who knew of her "activities," and she now had control of Devon's former position within the company. With her husband more concerned about computers, she was free to run things as she saw fit. However, her greatest relief was that she no longer had to worry about Wilton finding out about her secrets. Looking back on it, she had made a serious error in judgment when she had underestimated the Englishman's intelligence. Fortunately for her, he was still a man, and she knew _exactly_ how to control anyone of the opposite sex.

Oh yes. Life was great. She opened the door to her office, formerly Devon's office, but instead of finding it empty, she was more than a little shocked to see the original occupant. He shuffled through various papers, pausing briefly to glance up at her and then dismiss her as if she were no more significant than the doorway in which she stood. "Couldn't wait to start making changes, could you?" he asked levelly.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, stepping into the office.

He ignored her question. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he asked, waving his arm around the office. "At first, I thought it was because I knew too much, but then it occurred to me that I wasn't really that much of a threat to you. You had known me too long to consider that I would tell Wilton your dirty secrets to spare his feelings." He leaned forward in his chair, his hands resting on the scattered papers. "In fact, I would wager that you set me up. Showing up at my hotel, and then later confessing your burning desire for me." He shook his head and then shook his finger at her. "You are good, Elizabeth. That, I can't deny. If you want something, you don't care who you have to destroy to get it, including your own husband."

"Get out," she snarled, her posture rigid.

He rose from his chair and stood beside the desk, his hip leaning against the wood. "Come now, Elizabeth. Is that any way to talk to the man you love so dearly?"

"Out!" she snapped, pointing her finger toward the door. "Get out before I call my husband!"

He stroked his chin thoughtfully with his thumb and forefinger. "Well, yes, that would be a problem, wouldn't it? He is, after all, much stronger than myself, but considering that he isn't here at the moment, it would do you very little good. In fact, I happen to know that he is taking the children to the zoo today." He pushed himself from the desk and approached her. She made a move to bolt, but he was faster and slammed the door before she could leave. "Ah-ah-ah," he admonished, stepping in front of the door. He motioned toward the two chairs in front of the desk. Her face flushed with anger, but seeing that she had little choice, she sauntered pointedly over to the executive chair and sat down. "You just can't be satisfied with what you have, can you?" he asked, his tone condescending as he stepped a little further into the room. "You were born rich, you married rich, you have a husband who adores you and two children who love you, but it's still not enough. You have to have the power."

She leaned back in the chair, a smug smile on her lips. "I like to think of it as ridding ourselves of a fifth wheel."

"That night when I invited you along for a stroll, you wanted to retrieve your coat. You actually went to invite Wilton to join you later, didn't you? You set everything up so that he would be there at just the right moment."

She leaned forward, clearly proud of herself. "And you fell for it, hook, line, and sinker."

"But what you didn't count on was that I would come _back_."

"Making you an even bigger fool than what I had initially estimated," she crowed.

He crossed the room to the desk and braced his hands on it, leaning forward. "No, Elizabeth, _you_ are the fool. In your planning, you forgot one crucial factor. I also hold something over your head. I've kept my mouth shut until now, although looking back on it, I should have told him of my suspicions immediately. I not only know, but I have _proof_, and I can call upon several names to verify _exactly_ where you were while Wilton was away."

Her eyes narrowed, and she tossed her head. "He would never believe you."

"Who says that he has to hear it from me?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, slim black book.

She jumped up in anger. "Where did you get that?"

"I went through your things. How else would I get it?" he asked casually. "This has a list of several names and phone numbers – all men. Now isn't that strange? I'm sure that Wilton would find that very interesting."

"This is blackmail, isn't it?" she hissed, lowering herself back into the seat.

He smiled. "My dear woman, it could be nothing else!" He slipped it back into his pocket. "Now, you and I are going to make a deal, and if you keep your end of the bargain, then so I shall keep mine. If you fail, well, you may have a bit of a problem."

KRKRKRKR

"Sweetheart, may we talk?" Elizabeth asked slowly, entering the den.

Wilton lowered the journal he was reading, becoming concerned by the nervous look on her face. "Of course, Darling. What is it?"

The large, overstuffed leather sofa had been deliberately selected for comfort rather than style. It was bulky, and the tan leather drifted completely away from the deep blue color scheme of the walls and carpet. It stuck out like a sore thumb, but Wilton loved it, and at the moment, he had made himself perfectly comfortable on its plush surface. Elizabeth sat down beside him, resting on the edge of the cushion. Though she had asked to talk, the only sound currently filling the room was the soft tick-tick of the small, mahogany clock on the mantle.

"It's about…that night," she said hesitantly. "About…what you saw."

"I thought we already discussed-"

"Please, Honey, hear me out," she interrupted impatiently. Outwardly, it appeared to be nothing more than nervousness, but inwardly, she was furious at the corner she had backed herself into. She was careful to keep that anger at bay, however, because she knew that a great deal was riding on her performance. "He didn't kiss me." She paused, moistening her lips. "I kissed him," she said quietly, lowering her head in supposed guilt.

He shook his head. "I don't understand…"

She raised her head to meet his eyes. "It just happened! We were outside, and the moon, and the setting…I never meant for you to be hurt, but when I saw you…I…I panicked."

"He didn't seem to mind very much," he said, his voice deepening slightly in anger.

Her lips rose in the smallest of smiles. "Well, you always said that I was a great kisser…"

"It doesn't matter!" he exclaimed, rising from the couch and hurling the journal into his previously occupied seat.

"Darling…please…listen to me," she begged, watching him pace a short path in front of her. "It was an accident. I don't even know why I did it. I don't love him. I love _you_."

"Then why didn't he say anything?" Wilton demanded hotly.

"He tried, but you wouldn't listen to him, and I don't blame you after what I did…I've felt so guilty ever since that…I just can't live with myself anymore!" she exclaimed in exasperation, thrusting her hands upwards before dropping them back into her lap. "What I did was wrong, and I am sorry. I saw your face, and I saw the hurt, and, oh, Darling! I couldn't bear it!" She rose from the couch and stepped into his path, looking up at him with glimmering eyes. She traced her hands up the sides of his arm until they rested around his neck. "You're the only man I love, and you're the only man I want. I'm sorry for what I did, and if I could repeat that night, I would make sure that it had never happened. Devon is your best friend, and he cares for you so much that he let himself take the fall rather than placing the blame where it really belongs…with me." A single tear escaped its barrier and slid down her cheek, and her shining eyes promised more to follow.

He pulled free of her grasp and turned away from her, resting his elbow on the mantle. "He was still in the wrong," he insisted, his face turned away from her.

"It was an accident. You said yourself that people make mistakes no matter how hard they try to avoid them because no one is perfect. Well, I'm not perfect, and neither is Devon, but we're both very, very sorry."

"Devon? He's here?" he asked, twisting his upper body to see her.

"I…I asked him to come," she said quietly. "Please talk to him. Give him a chance."

Wilton turned away from her once more. He said nothing, but the rigidness in his posture and stiffness of his muscles told her that the conversation was over. With a heavy sigh, she left the room, closing the door softly behind her. As she stepped into the hall, her eyes fell on Devon, and she glowered furiously.

"An Oscar-winning performance," he whispered just loud enough for her to hear. "It was a nice touch when you told him that you had asked me to come. Ever the dutiful wife, aren't you?"

She held out her hand. "I did what you asked, now give me the book," she whispered back.

"You must be joking. The only way to ensure that you don't go back to your old tricks is by keeping it. Oh no, I've hidden it somewhere safe, and if you ever try anything like that again, I'll not only ensure that Wilton finds it, but I'll mail it to every person in that book so that they can see just how "special" they were."

"Some day, Devon Miles," she hissed menacingly, "some day, I will make you pay dearly, and when your world comes crashing down around your ears, you will know _exactly_ who is responsible." With that, she continued down the hall at a brisk pace, not once glancing back.

Devon watched her with little more than mild amusement. Oh, he had no doubt that she would try to carry out her threat. Not only was she a woman, but she was a woman scorned, and he was well-aware of how capable a lady such as herself truly was. She had already proven it in her ruthlessness to be rid of him. Yet there was really very little left to take from him. He had lost his family to the War, and his best friend to a witch of a woman. He had no true emotional attachments aside from Wilton's children, but even she wouldn't stoop so low as to use them against him, not with Wilton around anyway.

KRKRKRKR

To say that the air was thick would be an understatement. To say that the air was suffocating would be a little more accurate. To say that, even with the lengths Devon had gone to in order to be here, he would rather be anywhere else hit its mark. He had been at the mansion for two weeks, and during that time, he and Wilton had not seen each other but once. Oddly, or perhaps, just not very subtly, Elizabeth had been sent to Europe to investigate the possibilities of branching out of the United States. With the hope of broadening their horizons, Wilton had allowed Jennifer and Garthe to accompany her. Without the sound of the children's voices and laughter, the large mansion suddenly seemed even larger, and Devon missed them dearly. Still, he knew it was a result of Wilton's wariness, and one that he could not entirely lay at Elizabeth's feet.

In the meantime, Wilton had literally buried himself in his work, pulling hours long into the night and sleeping very little. Devon worried about him, but he was too afraid to try and persuade the man into doing anything against his will. The last thing he needed was for Wilton to resent him even more. So, in turn, Devon had also found solace in his job, and he had been pushing the sale of this "miracle machine", as he had secretly dubbed it, very hard. Once the government became aware of the possibilities, a prototype was commissioned, and Knight Industries' best and brightest had been pulling around-the-clock shifts to meet the looming deadline.

He wasn't certain whether it was Fortune, Fate, or Lady Luck herself who was smiling down upon them, but the X1332 was completed, and, Devon had to admit, it was revolutionary. It could glean information from piles of reports to create summaries, fill out forms, and it could also accept verbal commands and questions and give appropriate responses. Knight Industries was once again ahead of its competitors, making it one of the most lucrative companies in which to be employed. For some reason, however, Devon highly doubted Wilton had called him into his office to discuss their recent success. He was right.

"I was surprised that you came back," Wilton finally said, breaking the silence.

"I was a bit surprised myself," Devon answered, fighting the uneasy feeling that had settled in his stomach. He settled one of the chairs across from the desk, hardly able to believe the formal atmosphere of the room. Always before, he and Wilton had barged into each other's offices, usually to the other's consternation, but no complaints were ever seriously made. Now, he found himself careful in his choice of words. "I was also surprised that you're even speaking to me."

"I had tried not to," Wilton said, his tone clipped.

"You let me stay," Devon pointed out.

"Because I wasn't sure what to do with you. Elizabeth told me that she set you up for the fall, but it was still a two-party effort."

"It seems inadequate, but I am truly sorry."

"Then why did you do it?" he demanded.

"It happened. It wasn't intentional, believe me."

Wilton snorted and rose from his seat, turning to stare through the doors and across the balcony. "The X1332 is ready to be delivered. We promised them a man to take care of it and keep it in top condition. I need to send someone who I know will keep their mouth shut and not tell others everything they know. It's a full-time job and will require you to move to Washington, D.C."

"Me? I know nothing about maintaining a computer, especially one like that!"

"You can learn, just as you learned to run a company. There will be technicians under you, so you won't be responsible for it entirely. Your main objective is to act as a liaison between them and us."

"It doesn't have to be me," he argued.

"Yes, Devon, it does," he said heavily.

Devon felt as if he had received a physical blow. "You're giving me this job to get rid of me," he said, hurt.

Wilton turned around to face him. "I don't need anymore 'accidents'," he said harshly. "It's obvious that the two of you can't be together, so I had no choice."

Devon rose quickly to his feet. "Wilton please-"

"I wouldn't push it, Devon," he warned. "The jet is ready to leave as soon as you are."

He wanted to argue, at least give some sort of protest, but all his arguments died long before his tongue could form the words. He grimly realized that it was futile even before Wilton turned his back to him. He walked slowly out of the room, not even pausing to offer a good-bye or even one more apology. He knew it would have fallen on deaf ears anyway. He closed the door to the office and fell back against the wall, suddenly losing the energy to move any further.

Perhaps in sending Devon across the United States, Wilton was trying to preserve some shred of their tattered friendship, and, obviously the trust in him as a businessman was still there. Yet the trust in Devon as a person, that was gone, and he proved it by separating Devon from his wife. As he pushed himself away from the wall to make his way to his room to pack, he realized that, despite his efforts, Elizabeth had won after all.

_Holds out arms to block flying projectiles Whoa, whoa, please don't hurt me! I know there's a lot of Devon fans out there, and I promise this isn't the end for him! ~KITT40146_


	10. Chapter 10

Over the next five years, Knight Industries continued to grow, as did Wilton's wealth. The company was preparing to go public, but, of course, he would retain 51% of the shares, giving him the final say in all decisions. It was a risky maneuver, as no one was sure how the public would react to the move, but whispers on Wall Street were encouraging. Because of the daring move, the entire company was in the process of being reorganized, and he was working overtime to ensure that everything ran smoothly. He had become so busy that he was forced to abandon his pet project, the X1332. Simply dubbed "X", its learning algorithm allowed it to adapt to new vocabulary, and it could make simple decisions based on previous outcomes. Technically, it was still a prototype, but X had been so successful that the government retained it rather than asking for a new model.

Garthe and Jennifer had also grown. Jennifer had inherited her mother's beauty, and it wasn't uncommon for boys to give her a second look. In fact, it would be highly unusual if they didn't. She had also inherited her mother's shrewd business sense, and she was often interested in the daily happenings of the company. She may not understand it all, but the idea of making money fascinated her. Garthe, however, was just the opposite, but understandable, given his age. He had his own group of friends that he hung around, and they were always looking for an adventure. Wilton had tried to curb some of his son's fearlessness, namely because there was no dare that Garthe would refuse. He knew both his children were reaching a critical age, and he wanted to spend more time with him, but the rigors of running Knight Industries had forced him to sacrifice even that time as well. If he could just get past the next few weeks…

"Darling, what's this?" Elizabeth asked, walking into the library, holding a piece of paper. Wilton had been spending quite a lot of time in that room lately, mostly to get away from the ringing phones and the continuous traffic in and out of the offices.

He looked up from the papers in his lap. Some of the sheets had spilled onto the stand by the couch in which he sat, and the carpet at his feet. "What's what?" he asked, squinting to read it from the distance between them.

She stepped closer. "This," she said, thrusting it into his hands.

He scanned the paper. "Just an I.O.U."

"Just an…Wilton, this is for five thousand dollars! _To our competitor_!"

He snorted. "They're hardly big enough to qualify as a competitor. It's a small, local company that specializes in microchips."

"I _know_ what it does. What I don't understand is why you helped them. They may not be big right now, but given a chance, they could be. Then what?"

"Then I guess we'll have to work harder to be better," he said calmly and sat the paper aside to continue his work.

She wasn't about to let it drop. She pushed some of the errant papers out of her way and sat beside him. "This isn't how you run a good business, Wilton," she said, her tone chastising. "There are two ways you handle competitors: you either buy them out, or you force them out. You don't _help_ them out!"

"Until what, until there's no more competition? That's completely contrary to the ideals on which this country was founded. I created this company from scratch, and there are others out there who are working just as hard to achieve what I have. I think they should have that chance."

"You could have at least had them sign something."

"I did."

"That doesn't count! It hasn't been notarized, and there are no witnesses!"

"You worry too much. He'll pay it back when he can."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Well, I guess I won't loan him any more money, will I?"

She shook her head as she stood. "You're impossible, Wilton Knight! Absolutely impossible!" she huffed and left.

"No more than some, darling," he said under his breath as he returned to his work.

KRKRKR

Washington D.C. can be an exciting place for tourists. It was filled with picture-perfect scenes, historical monuments, and, of course, the Smithsonian. During the spring and early summer, before the weather turned hot, many visitors took advantage of the many sidewalks (and fewer parking spots) to walk around the city and enjoy the sights. Unfortunately, today was not one of those pleasant days. A rare hot spell in early May had made the city almost unbearable, and Devon was loathe to leave the air conditioning of his apartment for any reason. He had just spent all night going over the X1332, or X, as it had come to be called. Some poor, overworked woman was convinced that the computer had started asking her questions rather than giving the standard, programmed answers. He had explained again and again that the algorithm must have required more information than was given, and that she needed to be more specific when giving it orders. Then, again and again, she would insist that she had fed it all the information it needed, and that the questions it had asked had nothing to do with the reports she was working on. Since neither he nor the computer engineers could find no anomalies with the system, he recommended a long break – for her, not the computer. As far as he knew, they had brought a temporary replacement and all was running smoothly. Maybe he could finally take a nap –

The ringing of the phone jarred his hearing and did nothing for the headache that was just starting to form behind his eyes. With a muttered curse at the person who had dared to disturb him at the ungodly hour of one in the afternoon, he lifted the receiver from its cradle on the end table beside him. "Devon Miles," he said.

The voice was hesitant and unsure as he spoke. "This is, uh, Adams – Ralph Adams. I'm working with the X1332 today."

"Congratulations," he said, unable to resist the sarcastic comment. "However, what does that have to do with me?"

"It's, um, the computer, sir," he said. "I think something's wrong with it."

"We completed a thorough diagnostic last night!" he said, growing exasperated.

"I know, but…it…"

"It _what_?"

"It doesn't want to work, sir."

"Did you call maintenance?"

"No, that's not what I meant. It works, but it doesn't _want_ to work…as in, it refuses. Is there something I should tell it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"To make it work."

Devon pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath to calm down, he asked, "Did you give it the correct instructions? Have you double-checked the information you fed it?"

"Oh, it knows what it's supposed to do. It just doesn't want to do it. It says its tired of paperwork."

"It _said_ that?'

"Yes sir."

"To you?"

"Yes sir."

"Mr. Adams, are you familiar with computers?"

"Some, sir."

"Then you know that it's impossible for a computer to be 'tired' of anything."

"That's what I thought too, sir. Until today. Maybe you should come down and see it for yourself."

"You can count on it," he said and hung up the phone. Then, he would personally see the man tossed out on his ear.

The X1332 was located at the Pentagon, but it handled no top-secret information. Its goal was to ease the workload by taking on the many smaller tasks, such as filling out the correct forms, processing requests, and organizing information such as the number of canned peaches in store for U.S. troops. It was mundane, but it freed up personnel for other, more important jobs. It required a modicum of artificial intelligence to decipher the needed information and answer questions, as well as carry on very basic verbal communications with its user. It also gleaned information from what it read and patterns it observed for future reference and learning. There was nothing in its algorithm that gave it the awareness to refuse to do its job simply because it "didn't want to do it".

KRKRKR

X was kept in an environmentally-controlled room that was kept cool 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Its parts ran hot, and constantly circulating cool air was necessary to keep the computer from literally melting down. It was small for its time, relatively speaking. At about five feet wide and six feet tall, most of the space was taken up by input and output devices, fans, as well as a console that monitored the computer for any errors. The essence of the computer, X, was contained in a bubble memory that was more than just "memory". It was where X processed the information, made decisions, and controlled the rest of the computer. In essence, X was the brain and the rest of the computer served as its body.

As Devon entered the room that held the mainframe, the first thing that he observed was that X appeared just as he had left it last night. A harried man scurried up to his side. He was fairly short, especially when compared to Devon's tall frame. Despite the heat, Devon still wore his usual three-piece suit, but this man had shed his jacket and tie, and had his sleeves rolled up past his elbows despite the cool temperature of the room in which X was kept. His dark-rimmed glasses did not flatter his appearance, but rather helped him to fit the stereotype of a person who had spent more time around computers than humans. "Mr. Miles, am I glad you're here!" he said excitedly, guiding Devon toward the computer. "I've had crazy days, but this takes the cake!"

"I presume that you're Mr. Adams?" Devon asked, discretely peering around the office for any sign of an open container of alcohol.

"Yeah. So, what are you going to do with it?"

"Do with what?"

"X! How are you going to fix it?"

"It appears fine to me," he said, gesturing to the computer.

"Sure, it _looks _fine, but you haven't talked to it yet."

He sighed. "X, access your voice recognition program."

"Voice recognition program accessed," a synthesized voice responded from a speaker near the center of the computer. It sat just beneath the monitor, giving a vague illusion of a mouth even though the metal covering did not move. The voice had a definite twang that was certainly not human, but it was comparably closer to a male than a female voice. It spoke with no inflection. "Voice recognized as Devon Miles." A small, black box sitting on the upper right corner of the computer rotated, providing X with a visual of the person addressing it.

"Access your self-diagnostic program," Devon said.

"Self-diagnostic program accessed." There was a long pause before the computer added, "All systems functioning normally."

Devon turned to the man. "I see no problem."

"Sure, that's because you haven't told it to do its job, yet."

"X, do you have sufficient data to complete the task ordered by Mr. Adams?"

"Yes," it answered.

"Then do so."

There was a very long pause before an almost bored voice asked, "Must I?"

Adams crossed his arms and gave Devon an "I told you so" look.

Devon stepped closer to the computer. "What did you say?"

"I asked, 'Must I?'" X repeated slowly, as if speaking to a child.

Devon looked at Adams, who shrugged. Turning back to the machine, he said in his most authoritative voice, "X, you were programmed to process paperwork, not to complain."

"Mr. Adams's complains about paperwork continuously, as do others. Why can't I?" Though it asked a question, there was still no inflection, giving it a monotone voice.

Devon couldn't believe he was having this conversation. "Because you are a machine!"

"And you are a human. Now that we have our identities straight, how does that apply to this situation?"

"See what I mean?" Adams asked, stepping closer. "It's not supposed to do this, is it? Maybe just some sort of glitch?"

"This is far more than a glitch, Mr. Adams," Devon said, eying the machine up and down. "How many people know about this?"

"I haven't told anybody but you," he said.

"Keep it that way," Devon said, snatching the phone from a small desk on the other side of the room.

"What are you going to do with it?" he asked curiously.

"I'm not qualified to make that decision," he answered. "I have to speak to someone who is."

KRKRKR

Five years. It seemed so long ago, and yet, he remembered that dreadful night as if it had been yesterday. There wasn't a day that went by that he didn't wish he had listened to the whispered warnings of common sense and stayed away from her. Yet, she had led him by the hand into her trap, and he had followed blindly. It wasn't until the sharp sting of her hand crossing his cheek and when he saw the hurt and anger in Wilton's eyes that he finally realized what he had done.

In all the time that Devon was in Washington, neither he nor Wilton said one word to the other, except through indirect correspondence through underlings. Messages were short and adhered strictly to business. Though time had passed, feelings were still too raw on both sides, and avoidance was a wordless compromise reached on both sides. However, neither could avoid each other any longer. He wasn't sure if Wilton believed him or not, but he must have at least been suspicious because X had been designated top-secret and was currently being shipped directly to the Knight estate. He did suspect that Wilton had retained a sick sense of humor – that or a small taste for revenge – because, instead of using the company jet as he would normally do, he was currently riding in the cab of a semi with orders not to let X out of his sight. Oh, the indignities of life.

The mansion loomed large, its grandeur taking Devon back to the ancient castles of his home country. Part of him missed the place, but most of him would rather be anywhere else at the moment. He had been dreading this trip even though he knew it would be coming sooner or later.

The semi circled around the mansion to the rear where the hangar sat, the sun reflecting off its aluminum roof. One of the massive bay doors rolled quietly out of the way for the semi to back its trailer inside. The air brakes hissed and the doors yawned as Devon and the driver stepped down out of the cab. The door descended back to the concrete floor as they and several technicians dressed in white lab coats surrounded the rear of the trailer. The driver unlatched and unlocked the doors, and Devon moved out of the way as people stepped up into the trailer. None of them spoke a word, but they all seemed to be coordinated. He backed further out of the way to monitor their progress without impeding their efforts.

"What do you think?"

Devon jumped and turned, recognizing the voice before he saw the face. He quickly regained his composure. "Of what?"

Wilton nodded at the computer as it was carefully rolled down the makeshift ramp to the garage floor. "X."

"At the moment, I'm not sure what to think," he admitted, returning his attention to the machine.

Wilton watched as the back of the computer was removed, giving the uniformed workers access to X's internal components. "Let's go up to the house. It will be at least a few hours before they can give us a report."

Devon fell in step slightly behind Wilton and caught up in even stride once they were outside, following the pathway to the rear entrance. "Where are the others?" Devon asked. Garthe and Jennifer had always been fascinated by the large trucks, and it wasn't uncommon to see them trying, and usually succeeding, to get the driver to blare the air horn.

"Not here," he said flatly.

Devon stopped in mid-stride, hurt by the pointedness of that statement. Resigning himself to a very long next few days, he continued his pace.

What had once been a huge machine was now reduced to its most basic components: a large, box-like structure that was about the size of a microwave, a speaker, and a camera. The pieces scattered on the table seemed to be just that: pieces, except for the camera, which moved back and forth to survey its surroundings. Wires ran from various places and connected it to assorted pieces of diagnostic equipment, which displayed their readings on a single monitor. The rows of lines that ran across the green screen was confusing to most, but the technicians had no trouble interpreting the readings.

Rolls of paper on which X's schematics were printed on were held open against the table and workbenches by tools. Wilton was currently surveying the prints and comparing them against readouts he held in his left hand. "All of the hardware appears to be the same," he said, breaking the silence that had settled inside the large building, "but the programming is different."

"That's what we found too, sir," the technician, whose nameplate read _Berrington_, said as he stood beside his employer. "The basic software has remained untouched, but there are more protocols and more options than when it was first created."

Devon, who had been studying the monitor turned to Berrington. "Meaning what?" he asked. "It is designed to learn, after all."

"To gain more information, yes," he corrected, "but this computer isn't just organizing information. It's altering its way of thinking. Every minute that machine runs, its code is just a little different, a little more advanced. The changes are subtle, but they exist nonetheless."

"Are you telling me that it's evolved?" Wilton asked.

"It's evolved all right. It's evolved a _consciousness_," he said, clearly amazed by his discovery. "It's very primitive."

"How primitive?" Devon asked.

"Very similar to a five-year-old. It's very impressionable. My guess is that it heard the others complaining about similar jobs that it did, and X determined that the tasks were menial and unworthy of its time. Basically, it decided that if they didn't want to do the work, it shouldn't either."

"So I'm supposed to believe that this thing really thinks for itself?" Devon asked in disbelief.

"Incredible," Wilton murmured, walking up to the table.

"What do we do with it?" Devon asked, unintentionally repeating Adams' question. "We can't send it back like this."

"No, it won't be returned," Wilton said. "I have something else in mind for it."

"I do not wish to do paperwork," X said, in its monotone voice.

"You've already made that explicitly clear," Devon told the computer. "Wilton, what purpose could this thing serve? What is the point of having an opinionated machine?"

"The _point_ is that we have stumbled across the next generation of computers," he defended. "The possibilities are endless! An autonomous machine can go where humans can't!"

"Unless it decides it doesn't want to go there either," Devon countered obstinately.

"There are programming controls, safeguards, that can be – will be- implemented."

"I don't like it," he said, shaking his head. "You say there are benefits. All I see is a monster in the making."

"Mr. Miles, if you are objectionable to opinions, why do you express so many?" X asked innocently.

Devon glared at the computer.

"It has a point," Wilton said, barely keeping a straight face.

"Fine, take this lightly," Devon huffed. "But mark my words, nothing good can come from trusting a machine!"

"A rather ironic statement coming from you," he shot back, any semblance of humor gone.

Devon straightened. "Meaning what?"

Remembering the other two presences, he told the engineer, "Keep monitoring X. I have some plans I want to show you later."

Devon wasn't willing to let the subject drop for the second time. He quickly caught up with Wilton, who was walking at a fast pace toward the mansion. "I didn't appreciate that comment," he said, cutting in front of the other man.

"Are you going to tell me it was undeserved?"

"It was uncalled for! Wilton, it's been _five years_! How much longer must this continue?"

The two men locked gazes, and a cold silence settled between them though not one word was spoken. Then, Wilton pushed past him and continued up the walk.

Devon's temper flared. "Fine! Turn your back! That's exactly what I should have done when you showed up on my doorstep!"

Wilton stopped and faced him. "I wish you had," he snapped.

"I wish I had too," he returned with equal heat.

And that was how they parted. Wilton returned to the mansion and Devon walked back to the hangar, both letting hurt feelings and anger override any possibilities of forgiveness.

He didn't really have any business being in the hangar. After all, Devon was more of a businessman than a scientist, but over the past few years, he had become quite adept at computers. Still, he was where Wilton wasn't. Had he followed his first instincts, he would have boarded the first plane back to England. If there had been something for him to return to, he would have, but there wasn't. After nearly two decades, he doubted if he would recognize any of his family, which he hadn't been that close to begin with. The Miles estate had long since been turned over to someone who knew what to do with it and had an interest in its upkeep. He was wealthy enough to start over, but he was not foolish enough to act impulsively, no matter how upset he may be. At least, that's what he told himself. A little voice that he couldn't quite ignore wondered if maybe he lacked the courage.

"Are you indecisive?" X asked.

"What?" Devon asked, startled that the computer may have followed his thoughts.

"You continue to walk back and forth. Why do you not select a direction?"

He grew annoyed but stopped pacing. "Mind your own business."

"I do not understand that request."

"Then let me simplify it for your tiny brain. _Shut up_," he barked. Hearing heels clack against the hard floor, he turned to see who it was and then rudely turned back to the computer, resting his hands against the table.

"Who are you talking to?" Elizabeth asked.

"Preferably not you. What are you doing here?" he demanded, shifting so that he leaned back-first against the table.

"Why Devon, that's hardly any way to greet the wife of your best friend, or should I say, _ex_-best friend?"

"I don't have to listen to this," he said and roughly pushed himself away from the table.

She reached out and caught his arm as he walked past, causing him to stop. "I was surprised that you came back."

"I didn't have a choice in the matter," he said abruptly, pulling out of his grasp.

"Just so you know, I don't think it's right the way he's treating you."

"I'm sure," he sneered.

"No, I mean it," she said earnestly. "Why do you put up with it?" At his raised eyebrow, she continued, "You're smart, Devon. You're smart enough to do anything you want. Why do you stay around someone that only gives you grief- _undeserved_ grief?" She stepped closer, toying with the lapels of his jacket. "I mean, if I were as smart as you, I would start my own business."

He caught her wrists in his hands and tightened his grip when she tried to pull away. "You would just love that wouldn't you? What's next? An offer of help to go anywhere so long as I'm not here?"

"I…I was just trying to help," she said, her voice full of confusion.

"Oh, don't give me that," he snapped, releasing her. "You may have fooled me once, but that won't happen again. I can see right through this little façade of yours. You want me out of here because I know too much. I know who you are and what you are. You're unfaithful, conniving, greedy, and a spoiled brat. How you've managed to go this long without him discovering your affairs, I'll never know. I do know that I intend to stay here if for nothing else but to spite you and show you that there's at least one person in this place that you can't manipulate."

"You're making a serious mistake," she warned, all pretense of sociability dropped from her demeanor and her features. "You don't know who you're up against."

"Neither do you."

She threw back her head indignantly and marched out of the building. Devon watched her leave and then dropped into a chair. She had meant every word she said, but so did he.

KRKRKR

Wilton sat on the edge of the bed, toying with a yellowed piece of paper. It was creased and crumpled from being carelessly tossed into drawers and stuffed into pockets. He wasn't sure why he had hung onto it all these years. He remembered teasing his mother about hanging onto worthless mementos, but she always argued that no memento is worthless if the memories it brings back are good. For Wilton, the memories brought back by the faded and sloppy writing were bittersweet.

The area of the mattress behind him dipped and rose, adjusting to the weight it supported. Elizabeth snaked her arms around his neck and rested her head against his. "You were very quiet tonight at dinner," she commented. "Is something on your mind?"

"Mmm," he said, as if not quite hearing her.

She tilted her head at him and then slid around him to sit beside him. "What's that?" she asked, gesturing at the napkin.

"Just something from long ago," he sighed and sat it on the bedstand at his left.

She reached across him and snatched it off the table. She smiled slightly. "This wouldn't be Devon's old address, would it?"

He shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. "I don't know why I kept it."

"I do. You never throw anything away," she said wryly. She studied him for a moment, gently coaxing his head to face her with her forefinger. "Something happened, didn't it? Oh, I just knew it was a bad idea for him to come!" she lamented. "You two had a fight, didn't you?"

"A minor disagreement, that's all," he hedged. "Nothing for you to worry about."

"But I am worried! How can you expect me not to worry when you're upset?" She watched him rise from the bed and cross the room to the dresser, resting against it with his right elbow on the top. After a moment, she stood and softly approached him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You know, the biggest reason I fell in love with you was because you were so different from all the others. There's a genuineness that I don't see in other men. Take for instance, your loyalty to your friends. Why, you would never turn your back on them if they needed you. I just…I can't help but wonder…" She released his shoulder. "Never mind. It's not for me to say," she said and started to move away.

"No…what is it? What were you going to say?" he asked, turning.

She shook her head. "I said too much. Just ignore me."

"You're my wife. I would never ignore you. What is it?"

She sighed. "I know I'm going to regret this but…I just worry that they take advantage," she rushed, as if she had to say it before she lost her nerve. Seeing his confused look, she continued, "For instance, that loan you gave that company. Do you honestly expect to see that money again? And Devon…"

"What about Devon?" he pressed.

She swallowed. "It may be my imagination but…are you sure that you're letting him stay because he's beneficial to the company? What I'm trying to say is…maybe you're letting him stay for the wrong reasons. Please don't misunderstand!" she pleaded when he started to shake his head. "He's done a lot for this company, but I think he's using you. I didn't want to believe it at first, but I started noticing things…like those companies that beat you to patents _you_ rightfully deserved."

"That's how it goes sometimes," he defended, unable to believe what she was implying.

"I know but still…he's made quite a number of powerful contacts on the east coast, and he has access to just about all information in this company."

"It's a coincidence!" he argued harshly.

"All right, if you think so," she said, holding up her hands. "I'm sorry I even brought it up. There's just something about him that sets me on edge, and I don't need to remind you that I'm usually right when it comes to people. However, you've known him longer than I have," she added and pulled down the covers on the bed. She shrugged. "There's really no reason to doubt his loyalty, is there? It's not like he would betray you." She jumped at the click of the bedroom door and turned, seeing that he was gone. The small paper caught her eyes and she stooped down to pick up the yellowed napkin beside her foot. She smiled and crumpled it in her fist. With a light toss of her hand, she sent it across the room and into the trashcan by her bureau.

KRKRKR

Wilton's footsteps reverberated against the walls as he descended the metal spiral staircase to the concrete below. He turned on the bright, fluorescent lights. He used to spend all of his spare time here, but lately, he had neglected it. This place was the heart of his company. This was where ideas came to life, though, at the moment, it was difficult to tell that anything could be accomplished amidst the many scattered tools and bits of electronic equipment. A tiny whirring sound echoed in the large building, drawing his attention to a particularly special project that, unfortunately, was scattered in the same haphazard way as its fellow projects.

X turned the little camera, projecting Wilton on the black-and-white screen beside the speaker. While the scientists could break X down into specific components and lines of code, they could still not tell what the little AI was _doing_. Hoping to give them a clue, they had hooked up the camera to the monitor and was recording it, trying to decipher if X observed at random, or if there were specific things that caught its attention.

"Good evening, Mr. Knight," X greeted in its usual, electronic, monotone voice.

Wilton jumped, having forgotten about the second presence. "Hello, X," he greeted, not particularly wanting to talk to anyone – or any_thing_ – at the moment. He felt as if his mind was in a whirl. Elizabeth was a highly intelligent and perceptive woman. What if she was right? What if-

"Do all humans display such indecisiveness?" X queried.

He stopped pacing, staring in sheer disbelief at the computer. Had he spoken aloud? Surely there was no way for it to read his thoughts! "What?" he asked, unknowingly repeating Devon's same reaction.

"First, you select one direction, and then you choose the opposite direction. This is the second time today that I have observed this behavior. Should I conclude that it is common to all humans?"

"Most," he answered. "X, I really don't want to talk right now."

"Interesting. You then become defensive just like-"

"X, later, okay? You can asked me anything you want _later_."

"That is a vague term. Please be more specific."

"Tomorrow."

X fell silent.

Wilton released a breath and resumed his pacing as the camera followed his movement. At one time, he had considered Devon to be his best friend. They had worked side by side to make Wilton's dream come true. It had taken years and many trials and mistakes, but the company finally began to grow, and then it took off. Now, neither one could stand to be in the same room with the other. The damage seemed irreparable, particularly after their fight three days ago. And now-

"Perhaps it is exercise that your purpose?" X asked, breaking into the silence again.

"I said _tomorrow_!" he growled, his patience running out.

"Tomorrow was interpreted as the day after the present day in which you used the term. It is now thirty seconds past midnight." The camera zoomed in on Wilton's face. "I do not understand why my question causes annoyance. Perhaps it is a sensitive subject?" It paused. "You are going to tell me to 'shut up' now, are you not?"

Wilton closed his mouth. He had been about to do just that. Frowning, he asked, "How did you know?"

The door at the top of the staircase opened, and Devon blinked against the bright lights as his eyes adjusted from the lack of outdoor lighting. His shoes clattered against the metal stairs, sounding unusually loud in the quiet building. It wasn't until he reached the bottom step that he decided to take note of his surroundings, and, when his eyes fell on Wilton, he stopped, bristling. He had worried that returning to California would be a mistake, and he had, disappointingly, been proven correct. Despite his threats to Elizabeth, the invariable tension between the two men was wearing, and after he regained control of his temper, he realized the futility of his promise. He saw no point in remaining just to be a thorn in her side when it would only serve to keep himself miserable. Let him have her, he had decided firmly. He was washing his hands of the entire operation and moving on.

His right hand rose to his pocket, feeling the smooth, folded paper. With finality, he removed it and closed the distance between them to hold out the paper to Wilton. "I was going to leave this on your desk, but you may as well have it now," he said, his words clipped but firm. "It's my resignation."

Wilton's fingers stopped just an inch from the paper and pulled away as if it had burned them. "Your resignation?" he repeated. He wasn't certain why he was surprised. After all, he had been considering Devon's termination only moments earlier.

"It is clear that we cannot work together, and for the good of the company – and myself – it is for the best if I leave." He held the paper a little closer.

"That is contrary to your previous declarations, Mr. Miles," X interrupted as Wilton slowly took the paper into his own hands. "Yesterday, you said-"

"That is enough from you," Devon said sharply, the look he sent the camera even sharper.

X, however, was not adept at gauging human emotion from facial features and did not understand the glare. "How can my statement be considered enough when I have yet to complete it?" it asked.

"X, be quiet," Wilton said, reading the paper. It was written in Devon's impeccably neat handwriting, one that put Wilton's to shame. The words were formal, legal, and left no doubt as to the letter's intent. He refolded the paper. "What will you do after this?"

"I have received a few offers that are worth considering," he said vaguely, which, in fact, was true. Though the jobs were not nearly as prestigious as the one he held at Knight Industries, they were secure, and, most importantly, they were somewhere_ else_.

"Does that include the one the one made by Mrs. Knight?" X asked.

"What?" Wilton asked, looking from the computer to Devon. His eyes demanded a very fast explanation.

"X, shut up!" Devon snapped at the computer.

"No, X, keep talking," Wilton said, crossing his arms. "I want to hear this."

"Wilton, please-"

"What offer was made by Mrs. Knight?" he asked the computer, ignoring Devon's plea.

There was a pause, and then X's voice was replaced by a recording. The words were slightly tinny from the low quality of the recording system.

"_You're smart, Devon. You're smart enough to do anything you want. Why do you stay around someone that only gives you grief - _undeserved_ grief? I mean, if I were as smart as you, I would start my own business_," Elizabeth's voice asked.

The anger that had been rising within in him gave way to confusion. "X, is that all you have?" he asked as Devon turned away with the pretense of checking something on one of the other tables.

"No, Mr. Knight. Would you like me to continue the recording?"

"Yes," he said.

_"You would just love that wouldn't you? What's next? An offer of help to go anywhere so long as I'm not here?"_

_ "I…I was just trying to help."_

"Oh, don't give me that. You may have fooled me once, but that won't happen again. I can see right through this little façade of yours. You want me out of here because I know too much. I know who you are and what you are. You're unfaithful, conniving, greedy, and a spoiled brat. How you've managed to go this long without him discovering your affairs, I'll never know. I do know that I intend to stay here if for nothing else but to spite you and show you that there's at least one person in this place that you can't manipulate."

_ "You're making a serious mistake. You don't know who you're up against."_

_ "Neither do you."_

"That is the end of the recording," X informed them.

"What did you mean by that?" Wilton demanded, pointing at the computer. "What has been going on around here? Did you set this up?"

Devon whirled around to face the other man. "Yes, Wilton, I have nothing better to do with my time than have X record conversations," he said sarcastically. "How was I to know the bloody thing could do that? You know what? Forget it," he said, throwing up his hands and marching toward the stairs. "I should have known that I would be blamed for it. I'm always blamed for everything because you're too damned blind to look past the illusion that little snake wants you to see!"

"Devon!"

He stopped, his foot perched on the bottom rung and his hand on the rail. "You want to know the real reason I'm resigning?" he dared. "It's because if I don't, she would find some way to convince you to get rid of me. She will do anything to get her way. Yes, I made the mistake once of falling into one of her traps, and yes, I'm truly sorry that I didn't see it coming. The only good thing I can say that that woman ever did for me was that she made me a wiser man."

"If you felt this way, how come you never said anything?" he demanded, walking over to the stairway.

"What would have been the point? She has you wrapped around her little finger. Besides, I never really had the heart to try. You were happy, and you were convinced you were in love. The best I could do was maintain damage control. Looking back on it, I would have been better off to let you see what she really was." He ascended the stairs at a rapid pace.

"Devon-" he started, but the slamming door cut him off. "Devon!" he called, hurrying up the steps. Devon was nearly halfway to the mansion by the time he opened the door, and he had to run to catch up with him. He grabbed the Englishman's arm and spun him around to face him. "How am I supposed to believe you?" he asked.

Devon jerked his arm out of Wilton's grasp, deeply hurt. Drawing himself up with all the pride he could muster, he said tersely, "If you expect me to spend the rest of the night trying vainly to convince you, you're wrong. You're going to have to make a decision, Wilton. You can either keep living in this little dream world of yours, or you can wake up and face reality. At this point, I honestly don't care what you do. I've got a life of my own to live." He turned on his heel and continued to the mansion.

Wilton didn't stop him a second time.


	11. Chapter 11

Jennifer stood in front of the mirror in her underwear, scrutinizing her figure. In just another year, she would be able to kiss her childhood goodbye. She would be a teenager. She sucked in her stomach and stuck out her chest, or what there was of it. She exhaled. Some of her friends were starting to wear training bras. Why shouldn't she? She was old enough. Maybe it might even help speed things up.

"I find it interesting that humans spend so much time in front of the mirror," a metallic, monotone voice said.

She jumped and spun on her heels, searching for the speaker's origin. Running to her bed, she snatched her robe and quickly shrugged into it, tying it around her waist. Her eyes fell on an object which could only be described as a black shoebox with wheels. An antenna was planted on the back, allowing it to wirelessly communicate with a mainframe in the garage. A small camera was perched atop the "shoebox", angled up at her. "X, you little twit! Did Garthe send you in here to spy on me?" she demanded, advancing on the little machine.

The high-pitched whine of the little motor could be heard as it backed up. "I have received no orders from Garthe," it said.

"Just like when you got into my diary?" she shot back, lifting one of many pillows from her queen-size canopy bed. She pulled the pillow out of its cover and held the cloth in both hands.

"I did not know it was a restricted domain. You should have stated so on the front."

"You shouldn't be in my room to begin with!" She dove for the little robot with the cloth, intent on catching it, but X was faster. It darted to the left and idled, watching her through its camera. "Come here, you rat!" she snarled at it, chasing it around her room. She jumped onto the bed as it rolled beneath it and scooped it into the sheet as it rolled out the other side. The cloth shifted and shook as X tried to free itself, but she held tightly to the makeshift sack and carried it out into the hall. With a light toss, she sent android and sack into the hallway. "Stay out of my room!" she shouted at it and slammed the door.

Fortunately for X, it had landed on its wheels. It backed up and drove forward, trying to navigate its way out of the pillowcase, but it only succeeded in getting itself further tangled in the cloth. Suddenly, it was lifted into the air and a hand reached in, grabbing it firmly and pulling it out of the pillowcase.

"Aw, X, haven't you learned anything?" Garthe asked it and set it carefully onto the ground.

"I am continually learning. My algorithm is designed-"

"Okay, okay, I've already heard it. You really got to stop taking things so literally."

The little camera rose upwards. "It is inappropriate?"

"With you? A lot of the time. Come on. I'm going tell you a few things." He started walking, and X quickly caught up. Opening the door to his bedroom, he led the robot inside.

KRKRKRKR

Wilton held the sledgehammer over the vulnerable windshield. There was no animosity in his face; rather, it held a hopeful curiosity and a barely suppressed excitement. Four scientists dressed appropriately in white lab jackets stood at a slight distance to give themselves a chance to duck should the hammer go awry. They divided their focus between the millionaire and the windshield. With a grunt, he brought the hammer down, and it continued right through the glass, shattering it with brutal force. For a moment, no one moved and only barely breathed as they waited to gauge their employer's reaction.

"That didn't work," he said after a moment, though he was stating the obvious. "Looks like we'll have to try something else."

A murmur of agreement followed his statement, and they slowly meandered toward the rear of the hangar that had been divided into various rooms and labs. They were disappointed, but after the sixteenth failure, it was easier to take. Wilton had long ago learned that it often took many trials before success was reached. The only problem was that he was running out of windshields. A thought tempted him to tell the scientists they would be using their cars as test subjects from now on to test the Molecular Bonded Shell. It would certainly encourage them to do their best. However, that was a mean streak he didn't have, and he let the thought pass.

The MBS was a good idea, of that he was certain. He hadn't realized the undertaking it would be when he first started, but they were getting closer; he could feel it. The project also provided an excellent distraction, allowing him to momentarily forget his other problems. Devon had resigned from Knight Industries, but he was still active in the business world. The last he had heard, the Englishman had taken a job with another major corporation that specialized in plastic. That was three months ago, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. Everything seemed like a lifetime ago.

He had been reflecting on his past a lot lately, remembering the early years when three guaranteed meals a day was a luxury. He had literally gone from nothing to everything, but he looked back on his past with a nostalgia, contrasting even more when he was jolted back to the present. His marriage was rocky at best and dissolving at worst. Things that he used to ignore about her suddenly seemed unavoidably obvious since his fight with Devon. She could be cold and calculating; he had always known that. What he wasn't aware of was just how well she could and did turn any opportunity to her advantage. The skills that had made her such a good businesswoman now deeply disturbed him in the practices that she willingly employed in her own life. She got what she wanted, but Wilton couldn't help asking himself, what did she want with him? Had he been honest with himself, the answer wouldn't have been so difficult to determine, but he wasn't ready yet. He wasn't ready to admit that it wasn't him she loved, but his money and power. He couldn't. It struck too deeply within his heart.

"Hey!" a little voice exclaimed from below, causing him to pause in his steps.

Wilton looked down at his feet, seeing X rumbling nervously close to his foot. Normally, it would have simply diverted its track. It had never verbally protested. "I nearly stepped on you. Why didn't you react appropriately?"

"I did," it defended. "I am practicing the assertive techniques that Garthe taught me."

"You're six inches tall. I don't think assertiveness would be a very smart tactic," he advised and stepped over the little machine.

It accelerated and parked itself at Wilton's feet, stopping him. "I am as tall as I believe myself to be," it said confidently.

"You don't even know what that means," he snorted and stepped over it again.

It zoomed ahead and parked itself in front of him a third time. "It means that physical size is not important," it answered.

Wilton bent down and lifted the little robot into the air with one hand, the wheels spinning uselessly back and forth. "It's not?" he asked dryly.

The camera zoomed in on his face. "Judging by your facial features, my databanks indicate you are displaying a human emotion called smugness, which is seen when one human has advantage of the situation."

"And why am I smug?"

There was a pause. "Physical size is obviously a very important trait."

"That's right," he said, setting the robot down again. "Haven't you learned not to listen to everything that Garthe says?"

"I cannot display the discretionary hearing of humans."

"I meant that you shouldn't believe everything he says," he corrected.

"How can I tell which is the truth and which is not?"

"Well, you…" He hesitated. He was the last person to try and explain something like that, particularly with the mistakes he had made in his own life. "You'll learn," he said and continued past.

Had X been human, it would have left Wilton alone and found another direction to go. As it was, the little android continued naively after its creator, as was its habit. It did not know that Wilton was brooding. It couldn't begin to comprehend the complexity of human relationships, let alone the emotions that drove them. It only knew to gather information and analyze the data it received. So, it followed.

Garthe slid down the banister in his usual fashion, narrowly missing the vase at the end. "Hey, Dad, can I-"

"Unless you're about to finish that sentence with, 'finish my homework', the answer is no."

"That's not fair! You always let Jennifer do whatever she wants!" Garthe whined.

"Jennifer does her homework and isn't failing half her subjects," Wilton reminded.

"That's not my fault! I can't help it if the teachers don't like me," the little boy argued.

"How can the teachers decide whether they like you if you're never in their class – and don't say that you are!" he interrupted when Garthe opened his mouth. "I've had several calls from the headmaster concerning your absences."

"Mother agrees it's the teachers too," he said, switching tactics. "She said that if I don't like it there, I can go to another school."

Wilton felt his temper rise. "You are _not_ going to another school. You are going to stay at the one you're at, and if I get one more call from the headmaster, you won't be going anywhere for the next three months! Now do your homework!" he said sharply, pointing up the stairs.

"But…" His voice trailed away under his father's stern look. He stomped up the stairs, where, unbeknownst to either, Jennifer had been watching the entire scene.

"You really shouldn't bring Mother up like that," she admonished her brother quietly.

"Why not?" Garthe argued. "At least _she_ likes me."

"She lets you do whatever you want," Jennifer countered.

"She does you too!" Garthe shot back.

Jennifer sighed. "Look, they're kind of fighting right now. Just don't bring up Mother in front of him, okay?"

"Why?"

"You're too young to understand," she said, not lacking the petulance of the older sibling.

"I am not!"

"If you weren't too young, then you'd already understand and I wouldn't have to tell you."

There was a pause, and Garthe's forehead crinkled. "Huh?"

"See?" she said.

He may not have understood the vagueness, but he did know that no answer was voluntarily forthcoming. He narrowed his eyes. "I hate you."

She shrugged. "Yeah, I hate you too."

"I hated you first!" he shot back, following her down the hallway.

"Hated you more!" she called.

"I hated you first _and_ more!"

"That's not even possible!"

"Is so!"

"Is not!"

"Is so!"

Wilton winced as the walls vibrated under the force of the slamming doors. It was amazing that, even in a place so large, his children could still managed to shut the door hard enough to be heard throughout the estate. Just once he wished they would at least call a truce to their ongoing war. He was growing so tired of the constant bickering and fighting among his family, but it continued despite his wishes to the contrary.

Retreating to the library, Wilton continued to mull over the current situation. He supposed that he had been a little too hard on his only son, but he didn't feel badly enough to retract his statement. Garthe's habits and lack of discipline concerned him. He had learned the art of manipulation at a young age, and though his report cards never held a grade higher than a D, he was brilliantly clever when it came to getting what he wanted. Wilton could not entirely lay fault at his son's feet, nor at his wife's for encouraging it. He himself had been woefully absent during many crucial stages of his children's development. Birthdays had been missed, holidays passed, vacations postponed and cancelled. He had kept the company ahead of his family since Devon had left for the second and final time. It had been so easy to let his work consume him in order to avoid the problems his family presented – to avoid Elizabeth. He could no longer look at her without feeling the sharp bite of hurt and betrayal.

He did not select a book as one was wont to do in a room that contained a collection of information rivaling the National Archives. He just sat in one of the leather chairs, watching X peruse the room as it did every place it entered. Its core programming left it with a hunger for new data, and it recorded every little nuance. However, that tended to leave the little AI as more of _nuisance_ once everyone had become acquainted with the idea of a self-aware robot. It was rather amazing how easily people could adapt to something new, perhaps even a bit bizarre. Perhaps it was even more amazing how he had adapted to the dysfunctionality of the Knight household.

X stopped its perusal of the lower shelves. (It could not reach any book, but it did like to catalogue them.) The sudden movement was unusual for the AI as it tended to complete its task unless told to stop or someone was in its way. It scurried to another area of the room, disappearing among the rows of books. Only the whir of its little motor gave it away, but even that died when it stopped. Some months ago, Wilton would have found that odd. Now, he knew that Elizabeth had entered the room. By all rights, robots should not be able to display dislike of anyone, but X always made a point to be somewhere else whenever she came. Furthermore, it would not reappear until she had left even if ordered to do so, another sign that X was evolving beyond its code. He suspected, but could not prove, that X's reaction had something to do with the intense arguments it had witnessed during Devon's brief visit.

"You had no right to raise your voice to Garthe like that," Elizabeth said, not even bothering to greet him before airing her concerns. As always, she was impeccably dressed, and her features remained immune to time. Her true age was a mystery, even to Wilton, and would most likely remain so.

"How would you prefer me to raise my voice?" he asked testily, pointedly averting his gaze away from her.

"Your sarcasm isn't wanted," she said, her words clipped.

"Nor is your interference," he said, this time meeting her gaze. He rose to his feet. "I will speak to my son as I see fit, not bow to his every whim," he added pointedly.

"How would you know about any of his whims? You never pay the least bit of attention to your children except to scold them!"

"You're one to talk about parenting! How much time do you spend with them?" he dared. "Your boyfriends see more of you than they do."

She drew back, unable to keep the startled look off of her face for the briefest of instants. Then, she planted her feet, her fists driving themselves into her hips. "That was unfounded and uncalled for," she said, her voice a near-hiss as she narrowed her eyes.

He snorted and rolled his eyes, stepping away.

"Don't walk away from me," she warned, her pitch dropping.

He turned but didn't step forward. "I will do as I please," he said, his own voice hardening. "You think that I am blind to your 'escapades'? Perhaps I was before, but not any longer."

"It's Devon again, isn't it?" she asked accusingly. "He's not here and he's still causing trouble between us. If he-"

"Elizabeth, save it." Wilton's tone was not so much abrupt as weary, but it was enough to stop her. "You've done it all to yourself, not me, and certainly not Devon. Is power really that important to you? I honestly don't think you would be satisfied until you had Knight Industries completely under your control, and even then I suspect you would crave more. You've done everything you could to manipulate me, including driving away the best friend I ever had because he wasn't blinded or dazzled by you. Actually, it wasn't just you. I let you come between us. That was then, Elizabeth. This is now. It just doesn't work anymore."

She straightened, throwing back her shoulders as she gave a light toss of her head. "Meaning what?" she dared.

"Meaning that I've tried for a long time now to put the past behind me, but I can't. I'm tired of separate corners, of the fighting, the coldness. Looking back on it, maybe I did suspect you weren't always completely honest, but I continued to believe you. I can't trust you, not ever again. What's worse is that I'm not sure that even bothers you. Do you have a conscience, Elizabeth? Is there a tiny smidgen of humanity in you or is your personal welfare too important?"

"I resent that! How dare you accuse me of such things. You've hardly been here at all, and you dare to assume my actions?"

"They're fighting again, aren't they?" Garthe asked his sister as they sat on either side of the adjoining door that linked their bedrooms. Even in a separate wing, the angry voices steadily filtered stronger and stronger through the corridors.

Jennifer sighed and nodded.

"Why do they always fight? We get yelled at if we fight," he said, as if that was all the justification he needed.

"We're just kids. They're grown-ups. It's different."

"How?"

"It's…it just is," she said snappishly. "Why do you keep asking me stupid questions?"

"They aren't stupid!" he huffed indignantly, drawing his head back as he stiffened his spine. "You just don't know the answers!"

"I do so!"

"You do not," he shot back.

"Do so!"

"Prove it!"

"I don't have to prove anything," she said and crossed her arms as she turned her head away.

The voices moved up a notch, but the reverberation against the high ceilings kept the words from being intelligible. Though not directed at them, it did silence the children's argument.

"I'm going to find out what they're saying," Garthe said as he pushed himself off the floor and into a standing position.

Jennifer jumped up. "No! Father will only yell at you again," she warned.

"I'm not scared of Father," he sneered. "Not with Mother there."

"Garthe!"

"It's true," he defended. "I don't see why it's such a big deal to you."

"Garthe, just don't go out there," she tried again.

"What are you, a 'fraidy cat?" he taunted. He disappeared from the doorway, but Jennifer chased after him.

Grabbing his arm, she used her larger size to pull him away from the door. "I told you no!"

"You're not the boss of me!" he shot back and jerked his arm from her grasp, giving her a hard shove onto the floor. He opened the door and walked out, but Jennifer didn't follow this time.

Jennifer stiffly picked herself up, rubbing her hip. She had always been protective of Garthe despite their constant bickering, and she had tried her best to shield him from the truth. Her parents had naively assumed that she did not understand the meaning of infidelity. She didn't entirely, but she knew enough to realize that it was steadily ripping her parents' marriage apart. What was worse, there was nothing she could do to stop it. All she could do was shield her brother as best she could, but even that was a futile effort against Garthe's stubbornness. Turning away, she walked back to her room and closed the door, crawling onto her bed and burying her head beneath the pillows as she tried desperately to shut out the angry voices.

Garthe crept down the stairs, following the sound of the voices. He wasn't surprised that they were in the library. His father tended to spend a lot of time either there or the hangar. At first, all he could do was make out a few words here and there, but nothing of substantial interest. It wasn't until he was close to the library that he could finally understand them. Fearing that he would be seen despite his bravado in front of his sister, he ducked into one of the side rooms, one that served no purpose but to hold expensive objects and look nice. Listening through the slightly open door, he winced at the resounding slap of flesh striking flesh. He wanted to leave, wishing that he had taken his sister's advice, but sheer shock kept his feet implanted in the carpet.

Wilton stared in dismay as Elizabeth put her hand to her bleeding lip. "Elizabeth, I'm sorry," he said, abhorred by what he had done.

"You're sorry," she snarled mockingly, her words slightly slurred from her rapidly swelling wound. "You haven't _begun_ to be sorry, but you will be," she warned and stormed out of the room.

"Elizabeth!" Wilton called, following her and stopping her by a firm grasp on her elbow.

Her eyes, pure rage in their depths, met his. For the first time, he saw what Devon had seen, and what his friend had tried desperately to warn him against. He saw the savage ruthlessness fueled by a purpose destructive to anyone who got in her way. All of the pretence was gone; the mask no longer in place. He released his grip. "Go," he said, his tone never increasing.

She turned, no remorse on her face, and did just that. X, who had made the innocent mistake of being too opportunistic a target, was kicked harshly by her heel into the far wall. The engine went up an octave in startled protest, but it recovered and retreated through an open door.

Wilton followed the little machine with his sight as it disappeared into the other room, but another object caught his attention. He slowly raised his eyes from the tennis shoe to the frightened face of Garthe. What fear there was vanished into anger when he saw that there was no recrimination from his father. Garthe stepped up to Wilton, his eyes accusing. "You hit Mother."

It was not a question. It was a statement – a statement for which there was no response. Garthe waited, giving his father a chance to excuse himself, to make some sort of rationality out of the irrationality of the scene he had witnessed. When none was forthcoming, he turned his back. "I hate you," Garthe hissed.

"Garthe…" What could he say? What on earth could he say?

Garthe kept his head turned away and stormed down the hall, not once looking back and silently vowing that he never would.


	12. Chapter 12

Wilton had thought it ridiculous to sign a prenuptial agreement. After all, why plan for a divorce when a couple is supposed to marry for life? Both he and Elizabeth had amassed a comfortable amount of wealth at the time, and she had not objected to the idea of protecting their assets as he had expected. They left the marriage with what they had at the beginning, except Wilton was far richer and Elizabeth benefited from that in alimony and child support. His lawyers had tried to press him into bringing her indiscretions into the testimony in order to try and protest any sort of alimony. He had adamantly refused. Despite what Elizabeth had done, he did not want their children subjected to a court battle, let alone find out the truth. They had been hurt enough by the divorce. The horror of striking her also fueled his guilt, and he felt he owed her something. There was another reason, one that he would not admit even to himself, but it still existed. Relegated to the farthest corner of his heart were the memories of those first few years of marital bliss – or what he had perceived as bliss. They had to be withheld from his consciousness to help stave off the pain of loss because, if he they were allowed to surface, he would have to admit that he still loved her, however irrationally that admittance seemed. He could not summon the anger for revenge. Even the bitterness of betrayal wasn't quite strong enough. There was only sadness and regret, even after a full year had passed.

One year.

It had been 365 days since he had last seen his children. Garthe refused to have anything to do with him, and Jennifer, while hesitant about shutting her father out so completely, followed her brother's example. There were no letters, no phone calls, no nothing. He wasn't even certain where they were, or even if they were in the country. Elizabeth had taken them to Europe shortly after the divorce was complete, leaving only her accountant's address with which to send the check. He had tried to contact them many times, but even if the letters and cards had reached them, they went unanswered.

He had started traveling quite a bit, handling much of the company affairs himself rather than delegating it to his equally competent employees. He much preferred hotels to his empty estates. There were too many memories and too many emotions that had been captured by those places. When he did stay at one of his homes, which was fairly brief visit at any of those places, he would relegate himself to the office, where he buried himself in blueprints and paperwork. It was convenient to multitask to the point where his mind did not have the time nor the energy to bring up his past. What was more, it was an escape. A part of him knew that it wasn't healthy, but he dismissed it as he did anyone who brought up the idea of him slowing down. His business was apart of him. It was the last thing he had left in his life and he held onto it with both hands. It would not betray him; it would not leave him. There was no emotional attachment required, and it suited him. His empire was steadily growing, and the wealth was increasing with equal fervor. He was so busy with the business side of things that he no longer even maintained his pet projects, setting them aside in a far away cabinet to gather dust. They were dreams, but there was no room in Wilton's life for dreams. Dreams were a waste of his time, and he had no time to spare.

There was only one remainder of what had once been, and that was the little robot that Wilton simply could not bear to grant the same fate as his other useless inventions. X was always somewhere close by unless it had been sent on an errand. It proved to be a useful gopher, delivering papers and notes around the estate so that Wilton did not need to leave his office. At first, many of the employees had been fascinated by the self-aware machine, but they had gradually grown used to it and no longer thought twice about wishing it a good morning or afternoon, to which it would politely respond the same. No one tried to engage it in a lengthy conversation, although it was perfectly capable, because no one thought it possible that a computer could be any brighter than a small child. The supercomputers that the technicians used to compute the enormous equations were certainly not very bright, but they also took up an entire room. Nothing so spectacular as intelligence and original thought could be expected from a computer the size of a shoebox.

Wilton knew better than the "experts". Each night, he downloaded a copy of the core memory, one that he referred to as the "bubble memory", for study. The true essence of X was contained in that bubble, a small core of self-awareness. From that tiny core, X was connected to its memory and processor. That design made X different from every other computer in existence. Rather than make the "brain" be the processor, X's "brain" existed outside of its components, making X more than the sum of its parts. Minute by minute and second by second, the core changed from its experiences, just as a human brain was different from moment to moment.

X's motor whirred as the little wheels turned to propel it across the carpet. Its speed had increased with its new parts, and it could zip quickly around the stacks of papers and tossed files that cluttered the large office. Though its processor was fast enough to counter any sudden interference with its path, people still jumped out of its way when they saw it coming. It parked itself beside Wilton's chair, waiting to be acknowledged.

Wilton reached down and lifted the papers from X's top. "Thank you," he said.

"You are welcome," X automatically responded. There was a pause. "I am bored."

"Then find something to do," he answered, returning to his work.

"I have tried," it said immediately.

"Don't whine," Wilton reprimanded.

"I do not whine. I am stating an obvious fact. I have made many attempts to keep myself occupied, but I have been unsuccessful. All errands have been completed. There is currently no need for my services. I cannot resolve this quandary without assistance. Therefore, in human terms, I am bored."

"Well, I'm not. I'm very busy."

X scuttled around the desk from left to right and then from right to left. It repeated this pattern until Wilton finally lay down his pen. "What are you doing now?"

"I am pacing. I have observed many humans begin this behavior when they are bored." X paused in its "pacing". "I do not know why. It only takes a tiny fraction of my processor to complete this action, leaving a majority of my processing power untapped. How is it beneficial?"

Wilton sighed and rubbed his forehead, privately beginning to understand why Devon had found the little android so irritating. "Why don't you go compute the square area of something?"

"Trivial. Any computation requires an average of .3584 microseconds for a total time of-"

"All right, all right, I get the point," he said. "Why don't you go to the hangar and watch the technicians?"

"I was observing the technicians until one of the computers overheated and caught fire."

"It caught fire?" Wilton repeated. "How?"

"I was trying to gain information from its memory banks, and there was an exponential difference between its downloading time and my uploading time. Its processor was overloaded and overheated. I was then thrown out the door."

Wilton frowned. X was not able to understand euphemisms, but it had just used one. "You were _thrown_ _out_?" he repeated questioningly.

"Yes. Fortunately, I landed some distance away on the turf, absorbing my momentum."

Wilton smiled slightly. X had meant "thrown out" in the literal sense. "Well, I'm busy right now, so you'll have to find something on your own." He made a shooing motion with his hand.

X, who had a rudimentary grasp on human body language, understood that it meant the conversation was over. Were it human, it probably would have sighed and kicked at the carpet. However, it was not human, and it promptly rolled out of the office. X did not have the capacity to feel irritation or any of the other emotions. It analyzed everything with precise logic and did its best to calculate any situation to its best interest. Its processor was very frequently _under_loaded, and, unlike humans who only used a small fraction of their brains, X was capable of utilizing 100 percent of its microprocessor. Unfortunately, its total processing capability was not needed. Time was perceived quite differently for X. If something fell, X had already calculated its trajectory, point of impact, and speed at which it would be traveling once it impacted long before the object ever reached the ground. Once the calculations were made, X simply sat and waited in what seemed like slow motion for its calculations to be proven correct. Physics, mathematics, and chemistry were understandable to the artificial intelligence. Humans were not. There was no formula to predict them. That was what made them so interesting for X. Consequently, X spent much time around them, though it usually found itself underfoot and was therefore unwelcome. Since X did not have feelings, it did not care that it was continuously pitched out of one place or another. It only returned again.

X did find that it maintained a preference for Wilton's company. Logic told X that Wilton served an important purpose of answering its seemingly endless questions. Anything deeper than that logic, the computer could not comprehend. If it could understand emotions such as attachment, it would have been rather put out by Wilton's dismissive behavior. Instead, something else had caught its attention, and its "bored" state was changed to "intrigued".

On the ground floor, boxes upon boxes were preparing to be shipped to destinations that had not been told to X. It perused the stacks of cardboard, scanning the addresses that would take them across the country and the world. Their contents, however, were not listed, and X, infinitely curious, decided to investigate for itself. One of the boxes had been tipped on its end, the packing material spilling out onto the floor. Moving forward, it easily pushed the lightweight material out of its way, but as it drove further into the large box, it found the material tamping down tighter and tighter as X inadvertently compressed it by trying to go further inside. Its wheels spun and it moved back and forth in an attempt to escape, but it only succeeded in bring down more of the crepe on top of it. X did not have the capability to panic, but it was fully aware of the consequences of not getting out and did not wish to experience them.

"Thank God, this is the last one," a woman's voice said, her words echoing inside of the box.

X's wheels spun in an attempt to right itself as the box was tipped, but it plunged down further into the material, landing with its wheels in the air. Light abruptly disappeared, and it could hear the screeching sound of packing tape stretching over its prison. It tried to alert someone, but it could not project its voice. Its surroundings began to shake and bounce, and thelittle machine could only deduce that it was being carried away. Yet X still did not panic, even though its powerful processor could not formulate a suitable escape plan. It might be said that X was resigned. Its programming allowed it to adjust to its environment, and once its environment was something other than a cardboard box, it would react appropriately. There was only one problem with the situation.

X was bored again.

KRKRKRKR

Wilton sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He could remember so clearly his ambitions as an inventor. How had he changed into such a bureaucrat? It had been so much easier when Devon and Elizabeth handled the tedious affairs of paperwork and number-crunching. He did have underlings to handle such things now, but he still had to monitor their results. He had learned rather harshly that it was impossible to trust even the closest people.

Wilton stiffly rose from his chair, his once fit stomach now softened into a paunch. He was the perfect portrait of an executive, standing in the middle of a luxurious office in a suit that cost half as much as a car. Somehow, though, this wasn't the image he had had in mind when he had first started out. He remembered daydreaming about spending his days doing absolutely nothing, with maybe the exception of sailing on a sinfully expensive yacht across the Mediterranean. He hadn't particularly liked boats, but that was what rich people seemed to do. He and Todd had wasted hours daydreaming about such things. Todd… How long had it been since he had thought of him?

He brought his train of thought to a very sharp derailment, knowing that a trip down memory lane never lifted his mood. It was far too quiet, and Wilton needed a distraction. Reaching out to his desk, he sifted through the papers until he found the little remote device he had designed to call X without the need of hunting the grounds. Pressing the single button, he fell back to sorting papers as he waited. Minutes passed, and though he listened carefully, X did not respond. He pressed the button again, making sure to aim the antennae toward the ceiling to better ensure that the signal reach X. Again, after an impatient wait, the little android had not responded. Unlike X's logic that nixed any sort of emotional reaction to the situation, Wilton couldn't help his rising concern. X, though sometimes irritatingly naïve, was the closest thing Wilton had left as a friend. It might be comparable to a beloved pet rather than another human, but still…

He lifted the phone and dialed a single number. He was answered with an abrupt greeting. There was no pretense of introduction. The line linked only two phones. "I want the grounds searched," he said. "X is missing." Receiving another abrupt _Yes sir,_ Wilton hung up the phone. X was not capable of deliberately disobeying a command. It was embedded in his programming to obey. However, X did have a way of finding itself in trouble and could have been rendered incapable of answering. If that was so, it was a simple matter of finding the android and having any necessary repairs made. While security checked the outside, Wilton decided to make a sweep of the upper floor. It had been hours since he had seen X, meaning that it could be anywhere.

Two hours later, X had still not been found. Wilton had ordered another sweep of the grounds, which had been completed. Wherever that android was, it was not on Knight property. Wilton couldn't fully accept that conclusion. X was programmed with the property boundaries, and it was strictly forbidden to go beyond them. Unlike a child who could choose not to heed that rule, X's programming would not allow it to think otherwise. At least…he had thought…

X was beyond that of any computer in existence and was rapidly evolving every day. Was it possible that it had breached its core programs and altered them as it saw fit? Or worse, what if X had been taken?

Either possibility meant that recovering X was going to be difficult, if not impossible. As he returned to his office, Wilton couldn't stop the sting of betrayal, irrational as it might have been. He also felt the loneliness fall upon him. He really shouldn't be reacting that way toward the loss of a computer, no matter how advanced it was. He had sent two of the security patrol cars off the estate in search of the AI, but he just couldn't bring himself to believe that X would go off by itself. Perhaps it was an inventor's arrogance, or maybe it was just his mind rationalizing an explanation so he wouldn't have to consider the possibility that after everyone else had gone, X had now left too.

Tomorrow, he would call in investigators, and employees would be questioned, records would be checked, and witnesses would hopefully be found. He didn't let his hopes rise, however. He knew that if X had been taken, it was most likely gone and the thief's tracks were neatly covered.

He poured himself a scotch and studied the brown liquid as he would an unusual specimen preserved in a bottle. It had been an old friend to turn to before, but now…

The glass shattered against the wall, the drink staining the paint a hideous color. He dropped into the right hand chair facing his desk and let his face fall into his hands. Perhaps his sanity should be called into question for becoming so upset over the loss of a machine, but was Fate destined for him to not even have _something_ to serve as a companion, no matter how unusual a robot might be? He had certainly failed with more was left?

Wilton stiffly pushed himself out of the chair, his body reacting to a severe lack of physical activity. Pushing open the French doors, he stepped into the cooling night air, but, where anyone else would have shivered, he barely noticed the chill. There was not even the slightest hint of a breeze, and only a few crickets serenaded the night. A small smile touched his lips as he remembered Devon's desperate search for a particularly obnoxious cricket that had made its home outside his window.

As if the memory had been a key to a tightly locked safe, a flood of other memories filled his mind. So much of his poor upbringing he had spent wishing for wealth, and now that he had it, he found himself longing for the simple times of his youth. He had been so sure of what he wanted that he had been willing to overlook what he already had. He was the icon of a man who had everything he had materially wanted but was emotionally destitute. He realized that it was more than X leaving that had him so troubled. His abrupt dismissal of the naïve android was the crowning glory of so many hasty dismissals he had made.

His eyes lifted to the sky, the stars beaming brightly with the moon hanging just below the horizon. "Is this poetic justice?" he asked them, his voice disturbingly loud in the still air. "Or am I some sort of entertainment for you? Are you laughing now? I'm not!" He gestured to himself with his forefinger. "I worked hard! I earned this!"

Hearing the irony in his words, his entire posture deflated. "I earned this," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. Swallowing hard, he turned and lowered himself onto the low wall of the balcony, his shoulders unable to support the weight of the world that had settled upon them. "I earned this," he repeated to the floor. "I don't want it," he stated, surprising himself by realizing that he meant it. "Not if it means life like this. I'll find some way…to set things straight. I don't know how," he admitted weakly. "If there was some way for another chance…I'll find some way."

The hour was late, but he could not summon the exhaustion he needed to ensure a deep, untroubled sleep. Instead, he listened to the lulling song of the crickets, occasionally chorused by a very distant coyote. He tried hard to lock the memories away again, but they were elusive and appeared when he least expected them. They only served to remind him that, though he was at his own home, he had never felt so lost in his life.


	13. Chapter 13

X's internal chronometer measured four days, four hours, twelve minutes, and eleven seconds since it had been trapped in the package. It could measure the passage of time with a greater accuracy than that, but only a machine such as X would be aware of the difference. In order to conserve its energy, X had fallen into standby mode, conserving battery power by activating its processor when its chronometer had said that a specified amount of time had passed. X would become alert, check its surroundings, and if they still had not changed, it would fall back into standby after resetting its alarm.

It was for this reason that X had failed to hear the knife rip through the seal or notice the diminished darkness. So quiet and still, X looked like a child's toy, and a very boring one at that. That was the conclusion that Kasey Lill reached as he picked up the rather heavy black box with both hands. Known as Lil' Kasey to most of his fellow workers who earned their paychecks sorting through boxes in the basement of Micron Industries, Kasey's single job was to sort the parts that arrived each day. He wasn't really concerned with what was being developed there, although he did know it had something to do with a "mainframe" and "terminals". He didn't particularly care. He didn't have to know what they did. He just knew that tubes went on one side, monitors on the other, etc. This oddball gizmo went in no pile that he had ever seen. "Scott!" he called. "Come take a look at this!"

"Take a look at what?" his supervisor asked him, clearly annoyed. "You've been at this job for six months. You should know where everything goes by now."

"I do, but not this thing," he said, shoving it in the shorter man's face.

Scott Palmer was not the brightest bulb in the socket, but nor was he the dimmest, which was why he was currently one position ahead of the rest on the very bottom floor of the building. He often credited his success to his one semester at the Community College, but it was highly doubtful that it had made such a difference since he had failed every class. More likely, the reason of his elevated position was because the interviewer for the managerial position had recognized the sheer tenacity it had taken for anyone not only to flunk every single class, but to flunk physical education as well. Perhaps it was that same tenacity now that would not let him shrug his shoulders and admit defeat. "Sure I know what it is," he said haughtily. "I just gotta check my manual and find out where it goes." With great pretense, Scott set X down on the table and pulled out the small booklet. He flipped through it, glancing between the black box and the multiple pictures. "Yep," he said finally. "It is definitely a monitor."

"That doesn't look like a monitor," Kasey said doubtfully.

"Hey, who's the supervisor, you or me?" Scott demanded, stepping up to the larger man.

"You, but-"

"No buts! I told you it's a monitor, so take that monitor and put it with the other monitors!" the supervisor barked, throwing out his hand. He had forgotten about the manual clenched tightly in his fist until it connected solidly with the "monitor" and flung it off the other end of the table. "Now look what you did!" he yelled at poor Kasey.

On the floor, oblivious to the trouble it had inadvertently caused, X's lens began to turn. Its chronometer read too early for the alarm to have triggered its arousal, but it determined that fact to be inconsequential. Its environment had finally changed, and X was in an unfamiliar place. The little robot rolled forward, wary of the many pairs of legs and feet. Its lens angled toward the angry voices. "Excuse me," it said very politely. When a sufficient amount of time had passed and it had yet to be acknowledged, it said again, "Excuse me."

The strange tinny voice caused the argument to fall apart as both men stared down at X. Seeing that it had gained their attention, X inquired in the same polite voice, "What place is this?" It quickly rolled back to avoid being pushed as they turned more fully to see it.

"A monitor, huh?" Kasey asked, crossing his arms with a smirk. "Monitors don't talk!"

Scott backhanded Kasey's upper arm. "I know they don't, you idiot!" He stooped down to grab X, but the machine was too quick and darted back out of his reach.

Determining that it was a futile inquest, X turned its wheels and zoomed away, its high-pitched whine fading with the noise of the room. Scott backhanded Kasey again. "Don't just stand there! Grab it!"

Kasey started clumsily forward, trying to follow his boss's orders without plowing into anyone. He jumped up onto one of the tables and surveyed the room, spotting the little robot making its way toward one of the elevators with the doors rapidly closing. "Hey! Wait! Stop!" he yelled, jumping back onto the floor and rushing toward the elevator. X zipped between the metal doors, too low and fast to be noticed, and the doors closed.

X hid in the back, unseen by the other passengers. The doors opened, letting people out and more people in. Each time X tried to get off, it found itself kicked back into its original place.

"Doggy!"

X's lens angled upwards into the drooling face of a two-year-old boy. "I am not a 'doggy'," it corrected. Its monotone voice took on a brusque infliction. One might say that it was very close to indignation, but it should be impossible. X was not supposed to be capable of indignation.

"Mama! Doggy!" the little boy said excitedly, tugging on his mother's skirt.

"Quiet," she admonished.

The little boy dropped down and reached for X. It tried to back away, but there was nowhere for it to go. Its right front wheel was caught by a surprisingly tight grasp, and though it locked its remaining three wheels, it was still dragged closer to the drooling youngster. The elevator announced its arrival to the next floor, and the little boy was lifted to his feet. Along with him, X was tilted into the air, the tiny fist still snagging its wheel. It put itself into reverse and jerked back, pulling both humans with it.

"What on earth-?" the woman asked. "Tommy, let go of that thing!" She gave his arm a sharp jerk, and X was freed. Taking advantage of the commotion, it broke out of the elevator and disappeared down the hall, ignoring the child's cries of "Doggy! Come back!"

X hid behind one of the many doors in the long corridor, giving pause as its processor, once underloaded, seemed overloaded now. Streams of data flooded its system, and each byte had to be organized into accessible information. Each new experience was more information to download and sort, and in such strange surroundings, every experience was a new one. It tried to logically determine its next move, but it, even with the overload, X did not have enough information to formulate a plan satisfactory to its preservation programming.

The door swung backwards, and X accelerated to move out of its path. Even with its short reaction time, X was not fast enough to avoid the metal door, and it was pinned roughly between the door and the wall. Its engine emitted a shrill whine of protest as the wheels spun uselessly, hanging inches from the carpet. The door swung away, and X was dropped rather rudely back onto the floor. Its processing capabilities unhampered from the fall, it tried to beat the closing door into the room, but the door swung, again pinning X.

"Doggy!"

X's camera turned to the right, zooming in on the toddler who was running for it with open arms. Putting itself into reverse, X tried to free itself, but the door held tight. "This is unacceptable," it announced.

It was released from its captivity and then unexpectedly sent halfway across the hall by a foot. It landed vulnerably on its side, only able to listen to the child begin to cry. The situation grew more unacceptable when an apologetic man agreed to retrieve the "toy" in order to appease the child. As soon as it was picked up, it began to turn its wheels, hoping that it might have the chance to be dropped where it would make good an escape. As it was lowered toward the tiny hands, it began to turn its wheels faster. "Put me down!" it said, the same indignation appearing in its voice again.

The man carrying it was so surprised by the humanness of the voice that he dropped it just inches from the little boy. As the child made a grab for X, it rolled away, easily outmaneuvering the toddler.

"Doggy! Want doggy!" the boy cried, pointing at the retreating machine.

X could distinguish the fast-paced steps of the man chasing it, and it stepped up its speed to its maximum level in an effort to get away. There was no elevator this time to bail it out of trouble, and the design of the floor carried it back to its original starting point. Dodging the child again, it continued ahead, right into a pair of hands that lifted it off the floor. "Gotcha!" the man said satisfactorily, carrying it back to the child.

Seeing that it was about to be turned into a chew toy for a slobbering child, it appealed, "I do not belong to the infant. I am the X1332. I am a product of Knight Industries. I am owned exclusively by Wilton Knight. I am authorized to inform you that failure to return me to said owner is considered theft and you will be prosecuted."

The man stopped, never having heard such an intelligent speech from a motorized shoebox. "You said what?" he asked, ignoring the child's demands for the "doggy."

"I do not belong to the infant. I am the X1332. I am a product of Knight Industries. I-"

"Okay, I heard you," he said. He turned X on its side and upside down, searching for the microphone and evidence that would identify the practical joker. "How is this thing rigged, anyway?"

"Want doggy!" the little boy demanded, stomping his foot.

"Tommy!" his mother said, hurrying up to the child. "I told you to stay with me! How many times do I have to tell you not to wander off? Just wait until your father hears about this!"

"Ma'am, is this your child's toy?" the man asked, holding out X.

"That ugly thing?" she asked, making a face. "Certainly not."

"Doggy!" the boy insisted, fighting his mother as she dragged him down the hall.

"I am the X1332. I am a product of Knight Industries. I am owned-"

"I got you the first time," the man said. He searched the corridor, but no one appeared to be maneuvering the little robot.

"Please release me," X said, displaying another human characteristic: impatience. It turned its wheels in emphasis.

With no other option and in a hurry, he set it back on the floor, brushing his hands of the little robot. "Fine, you're released," he told it.

X would have thanked him had the man not left so quickly. Instead, it backed into a doorway to assess its situation. It was unaware of its precise location, and nor did it recognize anyone from its databanks. Its programming made it cautious toward strangers, even though it had never encountered anyone very hostile - aside from the technicians who had spent many overtime hours on a computer that X had inadvertently set on fire. Its programming also would not let it accept staying away from its home, and that took a higher priority. Its objective determined, it was left with another problem. How was it going to accomplish its objective?

"The answer is no. N-O. _No_."

A loud, jarring ring echoed in the office as the receiver was slammed onto its cradle.

X's camera turned, but it could not see the face of the man from its perspective on the floor. It rolled into the room, following the sound of the grumbling voice. It belonged to a dark-haired man in an even darker suit, but X didn't know that the tailored clothes and expensive furniture spelled power and success. It was inconsequential to a machine that could not understand materialistic need. The only information that was relevant to it was the name plate at the edge of the desk reading _John Macintyre_. The letters after the name were as inconsequential as the rest of the room. "Excuse me," X said.

The man first looked up, and then down.

X backed up quickly when he reached for it. "I am capable of moving on my own," it said. "However, I require assistance."

"You…require…assistance," he repeated. He grinned. "All right, the joke's over," he called. "This is Engineering, isn't it?"

"I am not programmed for humor," X said tartly.

"Hey! Come here! You got to see this!" Macintyre called to the adjacent office, ignoring X's remark. He picked it up as X protested.

"Why must I witness every tiny anomaly in your life?" Devon Miles asked, walking into the room. "In case you have forgotten, there is a business to run."

"Admit it, you're curious," John said.

"What makes you say that?" Devon asked, crossing his arms.

"Because you keep coming," John answered smugly.

Devon rolled his eyes. "What is it now?" he sighed, resigned.

John held up the black box. "Engineering sent it."

Devon barely glanced at it. "Oh good. They've been down to shipping. Let's see if they can actually give us something other than an empty box the next time." He turned immediately for his own office.

"Devon, make him put me down!"

Devon whirled around, his interest restored. "No. It couldn't be," he said, stepping forward. "Where did you get that thing?" he asked, picking up the black box to take a closer look at it.

"It rolled into my office," he said, his brow furrowing. "Why?…Devon?" he called as the man wordlessly walked out of the room, seemingly oblivious to the rudeness he had just displayed.

Devon closed the door to his office and set X on his desk. "How did you get here? Is Wilton here?" he demanded.

The camera turned upwards to focus on his face. "I am unsure as to where 'here' is, but I have deduced that I was mailed."

"You were mailed," Devon repeated.

"Affirmative," X answered.

Devon ignored its confirmation. "Is this some sort of last-minute retribution?" he demanded of the little robot. "Because you can tell him…no, better yet, I'm going to tell him myself," he said, circling the desk and lifting the phone off the receiver. He paused in the middle of dialing, and slowly lowered the receiver back to its cradle. His anger still boiled, but the hurt of the resurfacing memories tempered it. As much as he wanted to yell at his ex-best friend for the cruelty of the action, the thought of talking to him again was just too much.

"Your actions are inconsistent with your statements," X observed. "Why?"

"Never mind," he said. "I'm sending you right back, and you can tell Wilton that since I've had the courtesy to stay out of his life, he can return the favor and leave me alone."

"I will repeat the message," X promised.

"By all rights, I should dump you in the rubbish pile," Devon grumbled as he rose from his chair, his tone making it clear that the idea was still very tempting. He pulled out one of the boxes left over from the recent move to the new office. Setting it on the desk, he reached for X, who hastily backed away. "Now what?" he asked.

"I am a very delicate piece of equipment," it said. "I should be packed properly."

"I promise to secure it," he said, tipping the box onto its side so that X could get in.

X rolled into the carton, but the box was rapidly tipped onto its side as Devon flipped the box over, closed the flaps, and taped it.

"Secured," Devon said and tucked it under his arm.

"I could be broken," X protested, its voice muffled by the box.

"Oh, what a shame," he said, setting it on the secretary's desk. "Mail this," he told the young woman as he hastily wrote an address on the brown cardboard. "No, better yet,send it C.O.D - and don't put a return address on it."

"Yes sir," she said. She leaned forward to reach for the box, but as she was about to grasp it, the box tipped over and fell off the desk. Startled, she checked to make sure that her employer hadn't seen the mishap, and she scurried around the desk. She lifted the box, inadvertently causing the flimsily secured flaps to break apart under X's weight, and the little android zoomed away at its top speed. Again, she glanced guilty toward Devon's office, and then, with an innocent whistle, closed the flaps and taped them shut. Walking quickly to the mail chute, she dropped it inside and then hurried back to her desk, doing her best not to be noticed.

KRKRKRKRKR

Devon locked his office and slipped the keys into his pocket. The others in the building had long gone, and as usual, he was the last to leave. He didn't consider himself a workaholic. He was…productive. After recently ending his relationship with Amelia Clermont, there really wasn't much to do with his evenings. He remembered her fondly, and they hadn't parted on bad terms. She simply wanted more out of life. She was ambitious and a thrill-seeker, a perfect combination for a reporter, but not for a relationship.

He sighed and quickly put that thought out of his mind. She would definitely leave a lasting impression, but it only made him depressed to dwell on it. He summoned the elevator, his wait shortened by the fact that no one else was using it. The soft chime sounded shortly before the doors parted, and he stepped into the tiny room. Sending it to the ground floor, he crossed his arms and stared silently at the closed metal doors, his reflection in them blurry and distorted.

"Hello, Devon."

Devon jumped and spun on his heel, defensively parting his arms as he reactively prepared to defend himself from the monotone voice. It took him a moment before he thought to look down. He jumped backwards with both feet. "How did you get out of that box?"

"You did not pack me properly. I did try to tell you."

Devon gave the machine an odd look. He could have sworn there was just a hint of self-satisfaction in that declaration. He passed it off on his own tiredness. "Have you been in here all this time?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I determined that this was the only viable exit out of the building which you would take."

"I could have used the stairs," Devon pointed out.

"I said 'viable' not 'existing'," it corrected.

Devon's eyes narrowed. "Was that a snipe at me?"

"I was not programmed for sarcasm. I based my decision on your past habits," it said reasonably. "However, I have been learning about discretion. I thought it would be more discrete to say that the elevator was the most likely choice rather than mentioning your excessive preference for creature comforts."

"That does it," he said, picking up X. "This time you _are _going in the rubbish."

The elevator dinged and the doors opened, and he walked quickly out into the large, glassed-in lobby.

"Good night, Mr. Miles," the night guard said politely from his station.

Devon nodded hastily and continued briskly out of the building. He carried X to a side dumpster, hidden by a large fence to be more aesthetically pleasing. He pulled his arm back to sling it over the fence.

"Wilton will be displeased if I am not returned," X said.

"He should have thought of that before he decided to ship you to me," Devon said, taking aim.

"He did not."

Devon stopped in mid-swing, only barely keeping the robot from being flung from his grasp. "What?"

"He did not," X repeated.

"But you said that he mailed you here."

"Incorrect. You inferred that. I only said that I was mailed."

"Then how…who mailed you?" Devon asked.

"Unknown," it answered. "The box that I was exploring was mailed."

"It would be my luck that you would pick the package going here," he muttered.

"The probability was low, but not impossible," it said. "Actually, when calculating the volume of packages-"

"Shut up, X," he said. Devon paused. "I suppose if it was by accident, then Wilton will probably want you back." He looked temptingly at the dumpster. "Although, if he doesn't know where you went…"

X's wheels spun, not liking the sudden debate.

Devon released a breath. As tempting as it was, he couldn't muster enough spite to get rid of the annoying AI once and for all. He turned from the dumpster and walked toward the small parking lot in the front of the building, reserved for the upper echelon that worked there. "You're going out with the morning mail," he told it, opening the driver's door and setting X on the floor of the passenger side as he climbed in. "The only satisfaction I have is that Elizabeth will be as mad to get you back as I am happy to see you leave." He turned over the ignition of the Mercedes, the engine idling quietly so as not to bother its driver.

"She does not reside at the estate any longer," X corrected.

Devon's hand hovered over the gearshift. "They moved?" he asked, surprised.

"She did," X said.

"When?"

"One year, five days-"

Devon couldn't stop himself from asking, "Why?"

"My chronometer measures quite accurately-"

"No, I mean, why did she leave?"

"I was not made privileged to that information. I only know that she, Garthe, and Jennifer now reside in Europe, location unknown."

Devon sat back in the seat as he digested this news. "She took the children and left?"

"Affirmative."

"I knew it. I knew he should never have gotten involved with her," Devon said. "It would lead to nothing but heartache. I tried to warn him, but would he listen to me? Oh no. He knew what was best. He could take care of himself." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "I should have seen something like this coming."

"Why did he not heed your predictions?" X asked. "Judging from her pattern of past behavior, they are sound."

"Because he's a blind, stubborn fool," Devon snapped. He sighed. "And so am I. She was right. I didn't know what I was up against. She set the stage and we followed her script."

"You were in theater?"

"I might as well have been for all the drama," Devon said. "She corrupted everything and destroyed our friendship. All because she wanted total control and I wouldn't submit to her. Now that she no longer has any use for Wilton, she's done the same thing to him." He shook his head. "Good riddance to her," he said sharply as he put the car into reverse. "He had a choice and he made it."

"May I assume that it was the wrong one?"

"You assume right." Devon pulled out of the parking lot a little faster than the limit. It was a full five minutes before he could bring himself to ask, "How are the children?"

"Unknown."

"Why?"

"There has been no communication."

Devon frowned. A twinge of unwanted sympathy began to nag him. "And…Wilton? How is he?" he asked reluctantly.

"I was not programmed to accurately answer that question," X said.

"Then guess," he said impatiently.

"Based upon his past habits and behaviors and comparing them to his current habits and behaviors, I would guess that they have not improved."

"I would guess you're probably right." Devon wondered what had finally led to the split. He could only hope that it was Wilton who had finally had enough rather than the other way around. At least then, it would have been Wilton's decision. Devon hoped, but he also doubted it, especially if there had been no communication with the children. Elizabeth was probably using them as a final means of exercising at least some control over him, and that worried Devon considerably. Jennifer and Garthe meant everything to Wilton, and he would do anything for them. Elizabeth was too intelligent to pass up that opportunity.

He glanced down at X. He was still tempted to dispose of the robot, but he wouldn't. Wilton had suffered enough. Devon would pack it and send it back, making sure not to include a return address. The act of charity would be the last one Wilton Knight ever received from him.


	14. Chapter 14

"Excuse me, Mr. Knight," the pretty brunette said, stepping cautiously into his office. She was young and she was new, two qualities that added up to self-conscious nervousness and a very quiet voice. When she saw that her employer had not heard her, she took another step forward, holding her stenographer's pad up to her chest with both hands as if forming a barrier from behind which she could hide. She cleared her throat.

Wilton looked up, searching his mind for a name. He tried hard to remember the names of his employees – at least those that worked within the estate. This particular young woman was proving harder than usual to recall because he so rarely saw her. She was so painfully shy that no matter how nice he tried to be, she was always jumpy and anxious to be somewhere else. "Yes…Tina?" he tried.

"Tanya," she corrected very politely. "There's someone downstairs who insists on speaking to you."

"Who is it?" he asked curiously.

"He wouldn't give a name," she said, speaking quickly as if it were her fault. "He said that he had something which you would be glad to get back."

Wilton's brow furrowed as he rose from his seat. Tanya had already left, or rather, bolted before he had even reached the edge of his desk. He descended the stairs, unable to spot the mysterious visitor from the upper floor.

Seeing that he was searching, Tanya cleared her throat again, somehow managing to appear beside the stairs. She pointed at the door to her right. Wilton mentally noted that he had seen that same nervous look on a very young Garthe, who had once tentatively pointed at his closet and said, "You don't want to go in there. It might eat you." Wilton pushed that thought aside and politely thanked her. She gave him a nod and then fled.

He turned the knob and pushed open the door, stepping into the library. The room was rarely used except to impress guests. The room Wilton considered to be the "real" library was in another wing of the mansion where he kept books that he actually read. The books in this room were old enough and expensive enough to be in museums. Elizabeth had often used it as a conversation piece, and even though she had gone, the book collection had not, much like many of the changes she had made to this place. Wilton's interest fell on the man browsing them. Sensing someone else in the room, the man turned, a package tucked under his arm.

"Devon," Wilton said, shocked into a hoarse gasp. The muscles in his legs suddenly ached from the unheeded urge to step back.

"Wilton," Devon said, his tone less than greeting. Seeing that the other man was struck speechless, he withdrew the box. "I don't usually make personal deliveries," he said rather tartly, "but I thought this one was an exception." He lowered the box to the floor and opened the flaps, unceremoniously dumping X out into the room.

The little AI looked around and, spotting Wilton, it rolled boldly up to him, its camera focused on Wilton's face. "It would only be polite to check the box before it is mailed to ensure that I am not in it," X stated and then continued into the hall. There was no apology that it was tempted to utter, nor relief from escaping what might well have been its end. X took its arrival in stride, much as it had its departure.

Wilton watched the android leave and then looked at Devon. "Did X sound sarcastic to you?" he asked curiously as he jutted his thumb at the door. The scientist in him was caught by the discovery, and he momentarily forgot the awkwardness of the situation as he briefly pondered the possibilities of the new trait.

"It's a recently developed attitude," Devon said dismissively and crossed the room to leave. "You can't lay blame on me for that," he added lowly and continued past Wilton.

The bite in those words were deserved, Wilton knew, and he felt the awkwardness return as he was brought back to the present. He was unused to being in such a position; a man of power and wealth is the one who is always right. He felt unsure as to how to proceed, and a new urgency took over as he saw the other man rapidly leaving. "How did you know?" he blurted.

Caught by the desperation in Wilton's voice, Devon stopped in the doorway and turned. Unlike fiction, there was not an emotional reunion after being parted for so long. There were too many lingering feelings of anger and betrayal. In fact, he was uncertain as to why he had even come. Up until that morning, he had been intent on allowing the postal service the responsibility of returning X, but here he was. He resented X for being so stupid as to accidentally mail itself to his office, and through the entire trip, he had promised himself that he would return X and then leave abruptly. Yet, when he arrived, he had not dumped the annoying android into one of the employee's hands. He had asked to speak to Wilton directly. He could feel his resentment transfer itself to Wilton, whose ambiguous question was preventing him from carrying out the second half of his plan – leaving. "Know what?" he asked testily.

Wilton turned slowly to face Devon. "What she was."

He knew exactly the "she" to whom he was referring, but he was too bitterly angry to notice that Wilton had said "what she was" instead of "_who_ she was." He hadn't realized how hard it would be to come back to this place. There were too many memories, too many emotions associated with it. He had been able to distance himself from many of them when he was on an entirely different coastline. Now, facing it all again, he could feel them steadily surfacing closer the longer he stayed. "I don't think this is a conversation that I want to have," he said.

"Our marriage is over," he said as if Devon had never spoken. He walked further inside the room, his back to Devon.

Devon could feel the fringes of sympathy begin to intertwine themselves with his other emotions, and he tamped them down, reminding himself that Wilton had dug his own grave despite the Englishman's best efforts. Devon himself had even become a victim of her plots, drawn into her web despite his own better judgment. It was an embarrassing and humiliating point in his past, and one that his pride placed at Wilton's feet. "I know," he heard himself say and then mentally told himself to be quiet and leave.

Wilton didn't even bother asking how he knew. It would only stand to reason that X would answer every question truthfully and fully. "Then I suppose you know that she took the children."

Devon winced despite himself. He knew. He suspected that was what had finally compelled him to return. He did not know what had become of the Knights prior to the divorce, but when he had lived there, he remembered how much Wilton loved his children. Having succeeded in isolating her husband, Elizabeth had taken away his foundation, and Devon knew his friend – his ex-friend – too well not to be able to empathize even against his wishes. "I know," he answered a second time.

"It's the perfect opportunity for you to say 'I told you so'," Wilton continued, his tone somewhat bitter. "You've never passed up the opportunity before."

This time, Devon turned back into the room. It was true. When Devon had left all that time ago, he had waited for this day to come so that he would be proven right once and for all. As time wore on and the initial anger faded, he still waited, but it wasn't in anticipation; it was dread. He had even become ashamed of himself for those selfish thoughts. He could no more wish on Wilton the loss of his family than anyone. It was cruel, it was vengeful, and it mirrored Elizabeth's mentality too much for Devon's peace of mind. "I will not stand here and gloat over someone else's misfortune – not even yours," he said with dignity. "I came here solely to return X."

"You could have just shipped him back," he reminded, facing Devon.

"I tried, but the little monster kept coming back," Sevon retorted, folding his arms. "It was for my sanity only. I didn't come here to gloat, I have no intention of checking up on you, and I certainly am not here to reminisce. You have your bloody toy back. Make sure it stays on this side of the country. I'll keep myself on the other," he said smartly.

"Devon, wait."

He stopped, the heel of his shoe just beginning to press into the carpet.

Wilton hesitated. Having expected the other man to continue on out the door, he hadn't actually prepared anything beyond those two words. "What happened…what Elizabeth did…what I let her do," he corrected, "you were right. You were right about what she was, and you were right about what she was doing and she would do."

The Englishman fixed him with a look that distinctly said _So_?

"Not only that but I was wrong," he continued, having gained Devon's attention again. "It took a lot for me to finally see it, but I was and I admit that."

"You expect that to fix everything?" Devon asked, his voice never rising but still just as serious. "The trust is broken. We don't even have the reasonable doubt to survive as business associates."

"Then we can start over," he pressed. "We worked together once and we hardly knew each other."

"That was then," he countered firmly. "The past can't be erased."

"What do you want me to say?" Wilton demanded, growing exasperated.

"There is nothing to say anymore, Wilton," Devon stated in the same steady voice. "You made it perfectly clear that I was not welcome in your life. In fact, I was sent across the country like an errant child, and though I resented it, I went because it was partly my fault for allowing Elizabeth to manipulate me. However, I have my own life. I've moved on. I see no reason why I should allow myself to be dragged back here now that everything has once again exploded in your face."

"Devon-"

"It's too little too late," Devon said fiercely, letting some of the anger that he had been keeping at bay to seep into his voice.

Wilton didn't follow the other man out of the room. He didn't even dare take a step forward. What Devon had said was what Wilton had already feared to be true. The past did loom large over his life, preventing him from making any attempt to go forward. He had desperately hoped that Devon might be more forgiving than he had thought, but it had been futile. He had thought it some sort of serendipity that X just happened to be shipped to the very place where Devon worked, but it was an overactive imagination. The man had been right. Everything had exploded in Wilton's face, and unlike the other times, he did not have Devon's levelheaded intelligence to help him pick up the pieces and move forward again.

KRKRKRKRKR

X zigzagged around Devon's feet, moving too fast to be caught by the toe of Devon's shoe despite the Englishman's several attempts as he tried to get off the porch.

"Go away!" Devon snapped at it, finally having enough. "I've brought you back, now leave me alone!"

"Why are you leaving?" X asked with childlike curiosity.

"None of your bloody business," he retorted and tried to step off the porch. He was blocked by the pestering robot.

"Each time that you leave, you stay away for an average of four years, three months, eighteen days-"

"I can do as I please, and I don't have to answer to a roller-skate."

"I have not asked you a question," X countered logically. It quickly darted away from would have been a nasty kick. It came back in front of him, once again blocking his path to the limousine. "I have observed that it is usually customary for a visitor to remain for a certain period of time after a long trip."

Devon stopped and folded his arms. "This isn't a social call. I returned you. Now would you kindly _stay returned_?"

X remained in place.

"Oh, for the love of-" Devon stooped down and reached for X, but it backed away. He straightened again. "What is the matter with you?" he asked, growing exasperated.

"Mr. Miles, if we are to make your flight…" the chauffeur began slowly, having watched the comedic episode from a short distance by the dark limo.

"I'm aware of that, thank you," Devon said, forcing politeness into his voice to cover the brevity of his words. "X, get out of my way."

X did not move.

"I will step on you," he threatened. He knew was beginning to become childish, but the game was becoming rapidly infuriating since he was being bullied by a robot that barely cleared nine inches in height.

"You are incapable of catching me," X said in the same smart tone that Devon used.

"Don't be impertinent," he snapped.

"I am stating a fact," it said simply.

He closed his eyes for a moment to gather his wits before X pushed him past his limits. When he opened them, X was still sitting there. "Fine. I'll make you a deal. You let me go, and I'll visit." It was an outright lie, but X was too innocent to know.

"Judging from your past behavior, that is not viable," X said.

Or not.

"Then what do you want from me?" Devon asked.

"I request that you continue your conversation with Mr. Knight," X said reasonably.

Devon blinked. X had never before showed any understanding of human relationships, let alone a desire to mend them. "Why?" he asked suspiciously. "Did Wilton send you out here?"

"Mr. Knight is not aware of my current location," X said. "In answer to your previous question, it is my observation that communication becomes necessary when two parties are aggrieved."

"Aggrieved," he repeated, his tone indicating that X had summarily made the understatement of the year.

"Affirmative," X said.

Devon stooped down toward the robot. "If you're so concerned, then _you_ talk to him," he said and straightened, stepping over the android. He turned, hearing X's motor whine, as his foot sidestepped to counteract his movement. Misjudging the edge of the porch, his heel slipped down toward the stair beneath it and he made an automatic adjustment to his balance, but in throwing himself forward to do it, he was dragged in the other direction. His hands splayed out in front of him as he released a cry of alarm, and he tumbled down the stairs, landing in an unflattering heap at the bottom.

Unseen by anyone, X backed behind one of the pillars, watching silently from its hidden position.

KRKRKRKRKR

Wilton had just started to leave the library when he heard the scream. He ignored the others who came out of the side office to gawk. He was too busy running for the doors. Not having exerted his body that much in a long time, he was out of breath even going the short distance to the fallen man. "Devon?" he said, pushing aside the chauffeur who had just begun to kneel down. He tapped the Englishman's cheek lightly at first, and then harder. Not getting a response, he barked at the poor driver to call for help and then turned his panic-stricken attention back to Devon, unnerved by the blood that seemed to have no origin except for some hidden place on his head. "Hang on," he said, his words rushed from fear. "Just hang on."

KRKRKRKR

"Where are you off to?" a curious nurse asked her younger colleague. Her fiery red hair offset her sparkling green eyes, the color combination adding to an already strong air of mischievousness. She leaned forward on the desk and propped her chin up with her fist. "Another hot date?" she added, waggling her eyebrows.

The dark-haired woman blushed. "Would you stop asking me that?" she asked, dropping her voice in the hopes that the hospital grapevine wasn't listening.

"Well, let's see," she said, sitting back on the stool. She eyed the woman up and down. "Your hair has just been washed, your make-up is just a tad heavier than you normally wear it…" She grinned. "And you haven't bothered to change out of your uniform so that you can make it home faster and put on the perfect dress." She pointed at her. "Rachel has a hot da-ate!" she sang. "Come on, give. Who's the fella? Maybe…Doctor Peters in geriatrics? No, wait, that's me. Um…."

"I'm not telling you anything, Linda Ferris, because whatever I tell you always ends up all over this hospital the next shift."

She pouted. "Aw, Rachel, you know I never rat on you."

"Uh-huh," she said. "Forget it."

"I will find out!" she called as Rachel walked away. "I have ways!"

Rachel only waved, not even turning to glance back at her. She crossed through the waiting room to leave through the back exit, her eyes taking an automatic sweeping glance of the place as was a nurse's habit. It was a fairly quiet day for the middle of the week, and she had taken full advantage to get off her shift twenty minutes early. However, when she spotted the lone, dejected man sitting by himself, her soft heart began to pull her away from the door. She checked her watch. She could spare a few minutes and still be on time…

"Hi," she said, sitting down beside him. She used to politely just walk up to people and use an _Excuse me_, but she found that tended to cause heart attacks because they figured she was bringing bad news. "Are you all right?" It was a stupid question to ask. What person sitting in a hospital waiting room would be fine? But it worked.

"My friend was brought in nearly two hours ago," he answered. Wilton stifled a wince, picturing Devon's ire at that title, but he wasn't about to dive into such a complicated subject with a perfect stranger, so he let it stand.

"Well, I'm sure your friend is in good hands," she assured. "Our doctors are some of the best. Have you received word yet?" she asked, ready to go pester her friend for information.

"He's…recovering," he said.

She cocked her head. "Then why do you look like you lost your best friend?"

The question was innocent, an old saying that dated beyond probably history itself, but it hit him hard with just how literal it was.

Seeing the look on his face, her eyes widened. "Did you put your friend in here?"

"What? No!" he said, reacting to the shock in her voice. His momentary burst of energy quickly left him and he waved his hand and shook his head. "It's…complicated."

"Oh," she said, sitting back. "Whose fault was it?"

He shrugged. "Both," he admitted honestly, "more on me."

"Must have been pretty bad if you're still sitting here while your friend is in there," she said, jutting her thumb toward the hallway. "You know, I've found that a lot of people are more apt to accept an apology when they're under medication than any other time. The trick is to get them to remember it."

"An apology?" he repeated.

"You did say it was mostly your fault," she reminded. "You did apologize, didn't you?"

He thought back over the earlier conversation. "Not in so many words," he said.

"Did you actually come out and say that you were sorry?"

"Well…no," he said as if it had just occurred to him. "But it wouldn't matter. Devon wouldn't forgive me anyway. He's already made that clear."

"So did I when my fiancé fell in love with my sister," she said. "We didn't talk for three full years."

That caught Wilton's attention. "What happened?" he asked, his curiosity overriding his discretion.

"I became an aunt," she said, a smile touching her lips. "The thought intrigued me more than the hurt I still felt at being dumped. I already had a speech prepared for both of them, but when I got there…" She shrugged. "We'd been through too much to let our prides get in the way…and I had moved on with my life. I'm not saying everything was solved in one day. It's still a sensitive subject even after all this time, but we do keep in touch. With David dead now, I suppose it's really a moot point."

"David?"

"David Long, her husband," she said, somewhat sadly. "He was a member of the Las Vegas Police Force. He was killed in the line of duty about six months ago. It's been so hard on them, especially since my sister kept herself out of the family's finances. Now of all times for the IRS to show up…" She stopped herself, her cheeks coloring. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to bring my personal problems into the conversation. Now, you may or may not want my advice, but you should go to your friend and apologize. If he doesn't accept…well, it may be too soon, but you should try anyway. Take it from me. I've seen a lot of wounds mended in this place – and not just the physical ones."

"Wait," he said as she rose to leave. He looked around himself and settled on an old magazine as he pulled out a pen from his pocket. He flipped the publication over to the back and scribbled a note on it. He tore off the back sheet and handed it to her.

"What is this?" she asked, only barely able to make out the scrawl.

"My personal accountant," he said. "Your sister has enough to worry about without the government causing her more problems. Give him a call and tell him Wilton Knight sent you. He'll take care of things."

"Wilton…Knight…?" she stumbled. "As in…of Knight Industries? Oh, I'm sorry. I hope you didn't think that I came over here to…I mean, I had no idea you were-"

"You were very kind to a stranger," he said as he stood. "I only want to return the favor." He extended his hand. "And your name is…?"

"Rachel…um, Rachel Davis," she said, clearly startled. "Oh my gosh. When my sister finds out-"

"Actually, I would rather this stayed anonymous," he said.

"Oh…oh of course," she said. "I won't breathe a word. Thank you so much!" she said, her eyes glistening. She impulsively hugged him and then hurried out of the hospital.

Momentarily lifted by the good deed, he smiled. Elizabeth could never understand his "meddling" in other people's affairs. If they were going to fall flat on their face, it was their own problem. Wilton never understood how she could be so callous in that respect.

He felt his good mood rapidly dissipate as that tought brought him quickly around to how he had ended up in this waiting room in the first place. He looked toward the hallway and then back at his chair. Finally, with a sigh, he left the waiting room. "Excuse me, Nurse," he said to the redhead at the desk.

She looked up from her work and did a double-take. "Yeeesss?" she drawled at the distinguished stranger.

"What room is Devon Miles in?"

"The Englishman, right?" she said, a sparkle in her eyes. "I love his accent!"

He struggled not to roll his eyes. Her and every other woman in America. "What room is he in?" he asked again, keeping his tone patient.

"Ah…" She checked the chart. "Two-twelve. Down that way, on your right," she said, pointing a manicured finger down the hall.

"Thank you," he said and followed her directions. He walked boldly enough down the hall, but as he reached the designated door, he stopped. He reached up with a loosely closed fist and then he stopped. He gave himself a firm mental lecture, and then he brought drew his wrist back to knock.

The door opened, and both man and nurse jumped. She recovered first and looked back at her patient. "Mr. Miles, you have a visitor," she said and then walked past Wilton.

Devon looked up, saw Wilton, and then pointedly found interest in the first magazine he could grab. His dignity had been curtailed somewhat by the white gauze wrapped around his head and the hideous bruise along the left side of his face from where he had landed on the hard pavement.

Wilton walked up to the bedside, grasped the magazine, flipped it right side up, and put it back into Devon's hands.

"You couldn't even spare me that, could you?" Devon asked tartly, closing it.

Wilton shrugged. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I should have stayed home."

"In Washington?"

"In England. I should have known helping you would cost me something," Devon added bitterly as he folded his arms. He winced and withdrew his scratched wrist.

"You can't blame me for that," Wilton argued.

"Your little monster tripped me up!" Devon exclaimed. He quickly regretted the headache the loud noise brought on, and he put his hand to the side of his head. "Just go," he said in a more subdued, almost defeated, voice.

"Not until I've had my say, and this time you're going to listen," he said, catching Devon by surprise. Taking advantage of the other man's shocked silence, he continued, "Even after Elizabeth confessed to me what she had done, I still held you to blame. X played back for me the conversation between you two, and I still asked for proof. I couldn't believe that she would ever be anything but loyal to me, but you – who always have been there – I doubted your loyalty. You were right. I saw what she wanted me to see, and it cost me dearly. What I'm trying to say is…I'm…sorry. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you, I'm sorry I didn't believe you, I'm sorry I ruined your life, and I'm sorry you're stuck in this place." He paused, mentally checking to make sure that he had spoken everything he had intended to say, and then added with finality, "Now I'll go."

"I can't exactly say you _ruined_ my life," Devon said reluctantly, tugging on his earlobe. "You certainly haven't made it easy though," he added snappishly as Wilton looked back at him. "What I cannot understand is why you're suddenly so bloody anxious to make amends. You've been more than happy to keep a continent between us, and so have I."

Wilton looked distinctly uncomfortable. Devon was not going to make this easy for him. "Because I would like to think that I haven't lost everything, even if the one thing I've kept is my ability to learn from my mistakes," he said honestly. "You said that it was too little too late, and I will respect that," he promised.

"Good," he said abruptly.

Wilton's jaw slackened as he prepared to speak, but he closed his mouth. There really was no answer to that – not verbally, at least. He instead nodded his head in a wordless good-bye and kept his promise.

Devon had expected some sort of retort rather than a silent retreat. A small part of him was tempted to call him back, but the remaining pride, wounded though it was, squashed that idea. After all, he had been just as abruptly dismissed – _twice_, in fact. It was about time that the shoe was put on the other foot.

"All right, Mr. Miles! Time for your medicine!" a cheerful, plump nurse announced as she bustled into the hospital room.

"What medicine could I possibly need for a bump on the head?" Devon argued, his accent thickening considerably from petulance.

"They'll help you rest more comfortably," she said with the same cheerfulness as she held out the colorful pills to him along with a glass of water.

"I would rest more comfortably if I weren't being pestered every five minutes to take pills to help me rest more comfortably!" Devon sniped.

Her cheerfulness dropped. "Mr. Miles, I have twenty patients to attend to before my shift ends. The longer you hold me up, the longer my shift lasts. Now, one way or another, you are _going_ to take this medicine. It can either be with a glass of water or a very sharp prick in your posterior."

Devon struggled not to gulp. Judging from the look on her face and the muscular tone of her arms, that threat seemed very viable. "I'll take the water," he said.

The cheerfulness returned. "I thought you would see it that way." She handed him the medicine and waited to make sure that he did take it. She set the cup on the stand beside his bed and wished him a good night. As she turned, her foot kicked something, and the sudden movement caught her eye. "What's this?" she asked curiously and bent over to retrieve the object.

Devon reactively lifted his vision from the magazine and then winced before he quickly returned his attention to the magazine. He would have happily gone his entire life without seeing that.

"Is this yours?" she asked, straightening. She held out the small piece of yellowed paper, the scrawl nearly illegible.

Devon was almost afraid to look up again. Inevitably, he did, and his eyes widened as he held out his hand to take the old napkin. It had been crumpled and stained, as if it had been thrown in the garbage before being retrieved.

_"It's far more risky for me to ask you than for you to accept. The worst that could happen to you is that you'd have to come back to England. Me? I'd lose everything." Wilton stopped. "I've already almost lost everything. You are the only person that I have to turn to, Miles. The only one. I have no family, and my business partner just ran out on me with all my inventions and left me with a debt I'm not sure I'll ever be able to pay off. It took the rest of what I had to pay for my trip here."_

Devon didn't hear the nurse wish him a good night the second time. He didn't even hear her leave. "Bloody hell," he murmured, leaning back against the pillow. "Blasted, bloody hell."

KRKRKRKRKR

It was inevitable. He really should have seen this coming, but with Wilton Knight, Devon tended to be broadsided quite a bit. He was less than happy with himself for having given in to his pestering conscience, which had been making a nuisance of itself throughout his stay at the hospital. He had not shed the bandage around his head, but the one on his arm was covered by the long sleeves of his shirt. As he stepped up to the porch, he kept a careful eye out for that little menace, X, and, as he rang the doorbell, he idly wondered how much a hit man might charge to take out a machine. Surely it wouldn't be an outrageous amount, though Devon was certain it would be worth the price.

The door opened, but instead of being greeted by one of the servants, Devon came face-to-face with Wilton. Both regarded each other for a long moment of stunned silence, but it was the Englishman who recovered first. "If I'm going to put this company back on its feet, we're going to lay down some ground rules," he said firmly. "First of all, I expect a nice office. My old one will do nicely. Second, I want a full month's vacation time each year – none of this piddling two weeks the other employees have shoved down their throats. Third, you have to pay the moving costs. Do we have a deal?"

Wilton blinked. He made two valiant attempts at speech, but he momentarily forgot how to move his mouth. "I…you're sure?" he asked, puzzled.

Devon retrieved the weathered paper from his pocket and handed it to Wilton. "In fairness, the blame cannot rest squarely on your shoulders, Wilton," he said, softening ever so slightly. "You weren't the only one taken in by her charms. I ignored my own advice and let her use me. Had I placed more value on our friendship, none of this would have happened."

"Deal," Wilton said readily.

"I beg your pardon?" Devon said with a frown.

"Your three conditions. You have a deal." He stepped back and opened the door wider.

Devon entered, and nearly jumped back out at the high-pitched whirring sound that bounced off the walls of the quiet place. "But that thing has to go!" he suddenly exclaimed, pointing at X.

"X?" Wilton said. "He's promised to behave himself. He didn't mean to hurt you, you know."

"No I don't," Devon said, glaring at the robot.

"Well, he won't," Wilton promised. "I've even updated his programming. Come on, Devon!" he said, putting his arm around Devon's shoulders and guiding him toward the back of the house. "You can fill me in on the past few years!"

It was a deliberate attempt to sidetrack Devon, and he knew it. Part of him was almost willing to let it drop and nostalgically enjoy his return to Knight Industries, but that was only part of him. "One moment," Devon said. "I have to take care of something." He broke away from the man, already knowing that Wilton would be going to the study, a place they had shared many conversations over the course of their friendship. Checking to make sure that Wilton had gone, Devon said pleasantly as he reached for the doorknob to the staircase closet, "Oh, X?"

The robot whirled up to him, but as it drew close, Devon opened the door and gave X a kick with the side of his foot, sending it into the narrow room. Promptly shutting the door, he heard X bang against it. "I'm back, you oversized toaster," Devon told X, and he then continued down the hall.

_Two years later…_

The buzzer rang and rang impatiently, intermittently interrupted by a pounding on the door. Devon grumbled at having his work interrupted, wondering for the life of him why Wilton wouldn't retain at least a few of the servants on Sunday. He pushed back his chair and picked up his pace as he left his office, curious as to who would be out in such miserable, stormy weather. The storm had been bad enough to delay Wilton's flight in from Phoenix, and he couldn't imagine anyone traveling by car during the downpour.

The pounding became more insistent as he descended the stairs, and by the time he reached the bottom, he was at a run. Opening the door wide, he froze, not at the sight of the teenage girl's drenched appearance or that she had obviously been crying, but at her familiarity. It had been years since he had seen her, but there was no mistaking who she was.

"Please," Jennifer said, her lower lip quivering, "may I come in?"


	15. Chapter 15

"C-can I please come in?" Jennifer repeated nervously when Devon failed to answer.

Devon mutely stepped to the side as he pulled the door open wider.

The teenager stepped nervously through the entrance, as if she expected to be caught by the abrupt slamming of the door at any second. She began to shiver harder as her body took advantage of the warm room to bring her temperature back to normal. She sneezed, making her look absolutely pitiful.

"Good Lord, child! You're freezing!" he fretted, his vocal chords no longer paralyzed. "Wait right here," he instructed her and then hurried off into the back of the mansion.

Jennifer wrapped her arms tightly around herself, looking around the grand entrance as she would a stranger's place instead of her childhood home. Hearing a high-pitched hum, she glanced to her left and then jumped as a little robot navigated at a fast speed out of one of the side rooms. It was doing quite well until it accidentally drove through one of the translucent puddles of water and hydroplaned past her. It looked so hapless that she couldn't help but giggle as it slid all the way into another room. Not to be deterred, it returned, having learned its lesson and was moving at a much more careful pace as it bravely approached her.

"Who are you?" it asked.

She flexed her knees and shifted her weight to help warm herself. "D-don't you remem-b-ber m-me?" she stammered through her chattering teeth.

"No," it said.

"I'm J-jennif-f-fer. J-jennif-fer Knight."

Before X could respond, Devon returned, carrying a heavy blanket. Ignoring X, he draped the material around her shoulders.

"Th-thank y-you," she said gratefully.

"Why don't you come with me to the kitchen and I'll make you a hot cup of tea?" he suggested, hovering around her like a mother hen.

She nodded, tired of trying to talk with her quivering jaw. As he put his arm around her shoulders to guide her, she huddled close, instinctively using the added body heat to warm herself. Behind them, X fell in place, but as they reached the threshold to the large kitchen, she didn't see Devon give the robot a neat back-kick before purposely closing the door behind him and locking X outside. She was too distracted to hear the high squeak of protest when X landed, but she did startle at the _Thump! _against the door.

"W-what w-was that?" she asked, looking back at the door.

"Mice," Devon answered. "They can be terribly noisy."

"Oh," she said as she sat down at a small dining table usually used by the servants. His answer was completely ludicrous, but she was too out-of-sorts to really care. She watched him fill a teapot with water and put it on the stove. "I…I haven't seen you in so long," she began hesitantly, her chattering finally stopping. "Not since…since you left."

"I was living in Washington," he answered, pulling out a chair beside her and sitting down.

"Why didn't you write? Or come visit?" she pressed. "Garthe and I…we missed you."

"I'm afraid circumstances didn't permit," he said, staying deliberately vague for her benefit.

Her eyes dropped. "Then it's true," she said quietly.

"What is?" he questioned, his brow furrowing.

"That you and Father had a fight about Mother."

He straightened. "Where did you hear that?" he demanded more harshly than he had intended.

She looked at him, her gaze oddly earnest as if she was desperate for him to tell her that it wasn't true. "Mother told me. She was…even proud of it."

This time it was Devon who looked away, finding it far harder to face Jennifer than it had ever been to stand before Wilton.

"I know it was her fault," Jennifer said softly. "She told me that, too." Seeing his confusion, she explained, "Mother has…changed." She pulled the blanket closer to her body. "I asked about you one night. She got…angry. Please don't make me repeat everything," she quickly begged.

Through Jennifer's scarce facts so far presented, Devon could very well use his own imagination to put together a reasonable assumption of what happened. Everyone had a weakness, and Elizabeth's temper – though ever very rarely seen – was hers. She became so anxious to inflict whatever pain she could that she would reveal any number of things in her tirade. "It's not necessary," he said, his own tone subdued. "Where's Garthe?"

She visibly winced.

"Is he all right?" Devon asked, growing alarmed by her reaction.

"Physically," she admitted weakly before continuing sorrowfully, "but he's been poisoned by Mother. Ever since he saw Father hit Mother, he's just as bitter as her."

Wilton struck Elizabeth? More pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place. Wilton had not volunteered any information on what had finally led to the disunion, and Devon had never asked. He had suspected it was one of Elizabeth's affairs…but that?

"I don't know if it's true or not," she said, unknowingly answering Devon's thoughts. "I hope it's not true. I didn't know what else to do," she pressed, her words coming faster. "I had to get out of there, and I had a little money, but I hadn't heard from Father in so long, and I…I…" She burst into tears, unnerving the Englishman completely.

"There, there, please don't cry," he implored over the sobbing, offering her his handkerchief. "Please, Jennifer. Everything will be all right." Hearing the shrill whistle of the kettle, he pressed the cloth into her hand and rose, quickly shutting off the stove. "Now, start at the beginning and tell me what happened – slowly." He emphasized the last word as he prepared the tea.

Her crying subsided, but the tears did not. Even with Devon's prompting, she wouldn't talk until he had set a cup of steaming tea before her. She sipped it, trying to relax her tight throat muscles so that she could continue. "We left that day - after Mother and Father had that fight," she began; her voice somewhat feeble. This was clearly a subject that was not brought up often. "We stayed a few months in France… and then Spain…or maybe it was Sweden?" She shook her head dismally. "I guess it doesn't really matter. We were always moving, it seemed, though it probably wasn't as often as it seemed. Everything changed so fast…my memory is a little distorted."

Devon nodded his encouragement when she gave him an apologetic look.

"I tried to write to Father for a year, but he never answered," she said desperately. "I…begged him." Her eyes dropped to the steaming liquid in the cup. "I wanted to come home so badly." She swallowed fighting another wave of tears. The hoarseness threatened to turn her words into a croak, and she took another sip from the cup before she determinedly pressed on with the explanation. "Since I never got an answer, I figured that he didn't want me. Garthe and Mother were always talking so mean about him, but I couldn't believe he was that bad. He may have…not been around that much, but he wasn't bad. After all, Mother wasn't really around either. I saw my history tutor more than I saw her. As I got older, I got tired of hearing the same thing again and again, and one night I finally told her so." At this point, Jennifer paused and took a shuddering breath, her eyes tightly closing as she turned her head away. Devon didn't prompt her, though his own heart broke at the pain he knew was hurting her. As he expected, she kept going. "She got angry with me…and we started arguing. Garthe took her side, as usual, and he and I started fighting too. I worry about my brother," she admitted with difficulty. "He started hanging around older boys – they're always getting into trouble. If it weren't for Mother's money, he would be in jail."

Devon shook his head sadly, remembering the sweet little boy with whom he had spent many hours playing baseball with in the back yard.

"He's grown since you were here," she said, following his thoughts again. "You wouldn't recognize him anymore – I barely do." She shook her head ruefully. "He's so full of anger…and he's as calculating as Mother." She paused, giving Devon a chance to react, but when he didn't, she continued, "I was going to just run away. I didn't know what else to do. Since Father hadn't answered my letters and I wasn't really welcome with Mother and Garthe…I'd even thought of trying to find you," she admitted. "I just… needed someone…anyone to tell me I wasn't going crazy. I knew if anyone would tell me the truth that you would."

"I would do my best," he agreed. "But why come here, then? You couldn't have known that I'd be back."

She drew back her lightweight jacket and pulled out a letter. It had been crumpled and straightened and then folded, as well as yellowed from age and spotted by water. He could just barely make out the childlike printing, addressing it to the Knight estate. "I found this among Mother's things. I guess it had accidentally been packed with the rest of her stuff when we moved around. She never mailed my letters, Devon. I'll bet that she never gave me letters Father wrote either."

"He did write you," Devon quickly assured, remembering his friend's anguish from the failed attempts to contact his children. "He didn't know if they were getting through or if you were mad at him."

Her shoulders dropped in relief as she looked down at the envelope. "I was hoping that was what it was," she said and extended her arm to set the worn paper on the table.

Devon caught her hand, startling her. As she reflexively jerked back, he closed his hand tighter, but not painfully so, and turned her wrist, exposing the bare flesh that had was extremely discolored. "Where did this come from?" he asked her, his words clipped and bordering very close to anger. It was more than a normal bruise. Devon recognized the particular pattern caused from putting a brutal grip on tender skin. Suspicious, he pushed up the sleeve of her coat and found another one higher up on her forearm.

She eased out of his grasp and pulled the sleeve back down. "The latest of Mother's boyfriends," she said, her words forced out through her teeth. "It finalized my decision."

"I'll have him thrown in jail," Devon seethed, rising from his seat to pace. "No, I'll have him thrown _under _the jail!" he roared.

"Devon, calm down!" she chastised him hastily. She continued earnestly, "It's just a few bruises. Besides, he's in Amsterdam and I'm here." She stood and walked up to him as her tone took on an edge of desperation. "Mother's just as glad that I'm gone as I am to leave, and if we don't make a big deal about it, she won't try and make me come back. That's why you mustn't tell Father, or he'll make things worse. Please, Devon! Please!" She took his hands tightly, anxious for him to listen.

Despite her young age and the unnerving reality, her reasoning was sound. As infuriated as Devon was by what had been done, Elizabeth could make much more trouble for them, and returning Jennifer to the situation that she had just escaped would certainly not benefit her. His temper abated, but only for the moment and out of sheer necessity. "Very well," he said tersely and then leveled a finger, "but if she makes one move to try and have you return-"

"She won't," Jennifer assured and then added in a remorseful tone, "It's better for her image if she doesn't have to compete with someone who is younger than she is."

Her bitterness turned into sadness and he embraced her as she started to cry again. "It's all right," he assured, holding her tightly.

"DEVON!" Wilton bellowed.

Jennifer pulled back from him. "Please don't tell Father!" she begged.

"Child, I have to tell him something," he said.

"Then tell him something. Tell him anything. Just don't tell him _everything_. Please!"

"DEVON!" Wilton called again.

She gave him her best pleading look, one that had not changed since she was five and accidentally broke one of her father's vases. Devon had admonished her at the time, but not long after the lecture about lying to Wilton, an exact look-alike had mysteriously taken the broken one's place. Wilton never discovered the switch.

Devon didn't verbally promise anything, but he did return her gaze with an understanding one. He walked out of the room and nearly tripped over X, which was parked outside to eavesdrop at the door. It ducked away from his glare and promptly made itself at home some place out of his sight. "For God's sake, Wilton," Devon said as he came to the front of the mansion, "Raising your voice does _not _ease the burden on my ears!"

Ignoring the comment, he handed Devon a small mallet. "I want you to try something," he said and motioned for Devon to follow him.

"A test of restraint?" he asked.

Wilton opened the door to his office and let Devon enter first. As Wilton stepped in behind Devon, he proudly walked over to a pane of glass secured to a frame that was propped upright and stood beside it.

Hefting the mallet, Devon looked from Wilton to the glass and then back to the man. "Are you giving me a choice?"

"Amusing," Wilton said but backed away from the window – just in case. "Break it."

"Why?"

"Just do it," he said, his eagerness making him impatient.

"Something's going to happen to me, isn't it?" Devon asked accusingly.

"Nothing is going to happen to you," Wilton assured the Englishman, growing exasperated. "Just break the glass!"

Devon approached the pane and studied it. He pressed his fingertips against the glass, but it felt like glass should. "Fine," he agreed and took a step back as he drew the heavy tool toward his spine. With all the force he could muster, he brought the mallet around in a swing Joe DiMaggio would envy, and aimed directly for the center of the glass. Instead of shattering as he expected, the mallet reverberated off the window and flew out of his hands as he stumbled back from the reversal of momentum. "What the devil…?" Devon exclaimed.

"After all these years, we finally figured out what we were doing wrong!" Wilton said gleefully, enjoying the shock on Devon's face.

"If you'd wanted a list, I could have given you one," he said irritably, shaking the throbbing out of his wrist.

"The formula," Wilton elaborated, too excited to rise to the comment. "I finally figured out what we were doing wrong! It shouldn't be applied just to the surface. It has to _bond_ with the molecular structure of what it's being applied _to!_ It's a veritable adhesive on an atomic level!"

Devon blinked. "I'll…take your word for it," he said, having no idea what the distinction meant and trying to avoid a lengthy explanation by not admitting it.

"You don't look excited," Wilton suddenly noticed, turning disappointed. "Don't you realize how revolutionary this is? What it could mean for this company?"

"I'm sure it's…revolutionary," Devon agreed, "but I've got news for you, too."

Wilton reluctantly decided to accept the excuse as a reasonable explanation for why Devon wasn't as excited as he. The distraction must be interfering with his friend's ability to process the amazing miracle Wilton was presenting. "Well? Spill it, man! Spill it! Though I doubt it could be as big as this!" He studied the glass, running his hand over the surface. It was completely undisturbed where Devon had struck it.

"Oh, you would be surprised," Devon said, tugging on his ear. He only barely kept himself from wincing, but it took all the facial control he had. "You might want to sit down for this one, in fact."

"I'm not sitting down," Wilton argued, checking the rim for stress fractures. "Just tell me what it is."

"It's Jennifer," Devon said, more to draw Wilton's attention away from the glass than for any dramatic effect. He achieved both.

Wilton snapped his head up and turned to Devon. "Jennifer? What about her? You've heard from her?" he asked, though it sounded more like a demand.

"As a matter of fact, she's here."

"Here?" Wilton repeated. "Where?"

"Wilton, wait," Devon said, catching the man by the arms to prevent him from rushing out the office. "There are some things you need to know first."

"It can wait," he said, growing more frustrated when Devon bodily blocked the doorway.

"Blast it! For once in your life, _just_ _listen to me_!" Devon exclaimed furiously, his patience having run out.

The man's temper was enough to cause Wilton to back off. He gestured for Devon to continue, but to continue _quickly_.

Seeing that his friend would, indeed, listen, Devon continued in a calmer tone, "She's been through hell these past years. Elizabeth was keeping your letters from the children and Jennifer's letters from you."

"Jennifer? Not Garthe, too?"

Devon shook his head. "No, but that can be something for the two of you to discuss. There are going to be some things that you are not going to like, but hear her through. She ran away to be here, Wilton," he warned. "She has a very good chance of staying if you _don't push it_."

"Push what?" he asked.

"She'll tell you," Devon said, "but you have a daughter in there who has spent the past few years thinking her father purposely didn't contact her, so tread carefully."

"May I see her now?" Wilton asked impatiently, not agreeing one way or the other.

Devon stepped aside, hoping that Wilton would, for once, follow his advice. "She's in the kitchen," he said as he lifted the mallet from its resting spot on the floor. He waited until Wilton had left before he shook his head. He felt a twinge of guilt for keeping one very important detail a secret, but he eased it by telling himself he wasn't so much keeping a secret as letting Jennifer decide how much to tell her father. He sincerely hoped that they could work things out, and that it would ease the pain he knew Wilton would feel when he learned about his son. But that would be up to the two of them.

Looking down at the mallet, a small smile formed on Devon's face, and he slipped the tool out of sight behind his back as he walked out of the room. "Oh, X?" he called in a friendly voice. "Have you ever played tag?"

KRKRKR

Jennifer paced the room, chewing her bottom lip nervously as she wondered what Devon was telling her father and how Wilton would react to her sudden appearance. _Would he want her back? Would he think her bad for not writing? Would he be angry?_ She released her lip only when it began to sting from such treatment, and she took to wringing her hands as she waited in the nerve-wracking silence.

The door opened so quickly that she physically jumped back, her entire body tensing as she assessed the situation. "F-Father," she stammered. Her eyes riveted past him, expecting Devon to be close behind, but she and her father were alone.

Wilton closed the distance between them quickly, catching her first by the elbows and then pulling her into a tight embrace. Jennifer returned it readily, feeling some of the emotional weight lift from her shoulders. "Oh, Father," she sobbed into his shoulder, "I missed you so much!"

"I've missed you, too," he returned huskily. He pulled back just enough to cup her face in his hands. "But you're home now." He held her once more, disinclined to ever let her go again.

KRKRKRKR

"…So I walked right up to him, and I said, 'Mr. Zachary, either I get half the profit or I won't do the job!" the woman declared emphatically, bringing her fist down on the table's surface. She would aptly fit the description of a raven-haired beauty, and judging from the plunging neckline and tight waist of her blue chiffon cocktail dress, she knew it. Her other two companions in the booth had also been well-endowed with favorable aesthetic qualities, but not one of the three acknowledged the goggling eyes of the male clientele at the bar. These women had no interest in such low-life men. These sophisticates were too many steps above them to bother even to spare them a glance.

"I'll just bet," the brunette said smugly, quirking her painted lips in a smirk. She was dressed much more professionally in a violet business suit, but liberties had been taken with the alterations to make it more…appeasing. "You may have backbone, but you're not an idiot."

"Lonnie is right," the Asian-American woman sitting on the inside of the seat beside Lonnie spoke. There was no trace of an accent, but there was a careful pronunciation of her words that suggested a deliberate attempt to cover any flaws in her English. Everything about her was also impeccable, from her manicured nails to her perfectly styled bun and traditional Japanese dress worn on her tiny frame.

"Well, perhaps I didn't," she admitted, "but I wanted to! Thirty percent is appalling! I worked hard to get where I am. Why should he get the lion's share of the profits?"

"Because he coordinates the plans," Lonnie said reasonably. "And even at thirty percent, you were able to make a substantial payment on that Jaguar you so love."

"At fifty, I could have paid it off," she groused.

"Stay patient," the Asian-American advised. "There will be other opportunities."

"Speaking of opportunities," Lonnie said, her voice dropping as her head turned to see another woman walk into the bar.

"A friend of yours?" the woman sitting across from her asked rather sardonically. Her sarcasm seemed warranted, judging from the appearance of the meek person that just entered the bar.

"Who's the girl?" the Asian-American asked in an equally mocking tone. She refused to label her a woman, or even a young woman. There was no confidence about this stranger, who looked like it was her first time in such an unforgiving place. "They don't serve milk here."

"That's enough," Lonnie said tersely, silencing the other two.

"Oh no, not another one of your projects," the brunette groaned. "She'll blow our cover!"

"Not if we play it right," she argued. "Ladies, there is the picture of dejection – and we're just the ones to 'help'." Seeing the others' reluctant looks, she added enticingly, "And she works at Knight Industries – on the _estate_. Mr. Zachary has been considering her as a possible addition."

Two sets of eyes riveted to the newcomer.

Tanya carefully made her way through the throng, choking on the smoky atmosphere. She wasn't certain why she had come to this dump, but in her dour mood, it had seemed a reasonably fitting idea at the time. Yet, the half-hour that had passed between the making of that decision and her arrival here had tempered her determination considerably.

"Hi ya, sweetheart," a gravely voice said.

She jumped at the painful pinch to her posterior, but instead of retaliating, she picked up her pace and hurried to the bar, unwilling to see who the offender was. She would order a drink, down it, and leave. Only her pride kept her from running out of there, though it was irrational to think that it would make such a difference as to what forty or fifty strangers might think of her afterwards.

"What can I get ya?" the bartender drawled, standing before her as she slid onto a barstool.

"Oh…um…I don't know," she said quietly. She looked up at him with innocent blue eyes. "What do you recommend?"

"You look like a martini kind of woman," a man said, sitting on the stool beside her own. Unlike many in the place, he was dressed in a suit, though the tie had been relegated to his pocket. He smiled charmingly at her as he pulled out a twenty and rested it on the bar. "Two martinis, please."

"You don't have to do that, Mr…?"

"Don't be so formal," he chided with an easy smile. "Just call me Charlie."

"Charlie," she repeated. "Um, I'm sorry to sound rude, but I just broke up with my fiancé and-"

"And she's not interested," another voice, female this time, aggressively broke into the conversation. She pushed the twenty back to him. "Take your money and find some other wounded bird."

"I was just trying to be hospitable," he defended in a pout.

"She doesn't need your hospitality," she snapped. "Move it."

He muttered something under his breath as he took the money and wandered away.

"He really wasn't bothering me," Tanya said. "You didn't have to be rude."

"Honey, I did you a favor," she said. "Charlie Basely has a bad habit of taking women out of this place and losing them."

"Losing them?"

"As in, they aren't seen again," she said seriously.

Tanya's eyes widened as she reactively sought the person in question, but he was gone. She turned her attention back to the woman. "Why don't you tell the police?"

She shrugged. "No one can prove anything," she said. "Not that they haven't tried. Just take my word for it. Most men will do anything to get what he wants from a woman, and once he's got it…" Her voice trailed off into a shrug. She leaned against the bar and rested her elbow on the top of it. "So what brings a kid like you into a place like this?"

Tanya looked down at the countertop, studying her distorted reflection.

"Uh-oh," she said. "Who was he?"

Tanya couldn't mask her surprise. "How did you know?"

"It's a universal look," she answered. "Wanna talk about it?"

"But…I don't know you."

The woman extended her hand. "I'm Lonnie Davis."

"Tanya Walker," she said, shaking it.

"See? Now we know each other. So what happened?"

"My fiancé," Tanya said painfully. "He…found someone else. Our wedding…it was to be next week."

Lonnie winced sympathetically. "Ouch."

Tanya sighed miserably.

"Hey, it isn't the end of the world," Lonnie offered. "The pain will pass – and a few drinks with some friends will help it to pass faster. Why don't you come and join us?"

"Who's us?" Tanya asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Lonnie gestured toward the booth where two women were watching them.

"I don't know…" Tanya said uneasily.

"We won't bite, I promise," she said genially, "and you can always leave whenever you want. Come on. You shouldn't be alone at a time like this anyway."

"I…I'm not sure what to say," Tanya said, startled by the gracious offer. "You've been so kind…"

"Then just say yes," Lonnie encouraged, slipping her arm through the other woman's and leading her to the booth. "Ladies," she announced, "I want you to meet a new friend. This is Tanya Walker. Tanya, this is Mia Ferrell, and this is…well, we can't pronounce her real name. We just call her Sarah."

If there could have been a less fitting name for the Japanese woman, Tanya couldn't think of one, but she nodded politely as she slid into the seat beside her. Lonnie took a seat by Mia.

"So what's your story?" Mia asked.

"She was dumped by her fiancé for another woman," Lonnie explained, waiving over a waitress.

"Ugh, men are such pigs," Mia said, rolling her eyes.

"May I take your order?" the woman asked politely, holding out a small notepad.

"Four Vodkas, dry," Lonnie said.

Tanya tried to hide how uncomfortable she was feeling and braced her hands against the seat to keep from sliding down it. She was out of her element, not to mention her safety zone.

"Have you planned your revenge yet?" Mia asked. "I have some ideas, if you're interested.

"Um, no, I…I hadn't really intended-"

"As I suspected," Sarah said with a touch of distaste. "No assertiveness."

Lonnie gave her a warning look, but Tanya defended, "I can be assertive, but revenge won't help."

"She is green, isn't she?" Mia asked with raised eyebrows. "A piece of advice, kid: there are those who take advantage, and those who are taken advantage _of_. There is no in-between. Aren't you tired of being walked on all the time?"

She shifted in her seat. "It does get tiring, but what could I do? I'm not like you."

The waitress appeared and set a shot glass before each of the women.

"You're not born with confidence," Lonnie said. "You have to learn to exert it, even if you don't feel it. We are the superior sex, after all."

"How?"

"Because _we_ use our _brains_," Mia said. "Men only have their brawn, which is easily manipulated – if you know how."

"It is an art form," Sarah interjected. "You would not have lost your fiancé if you had known how to keep his eyes from wandering."

"But I thought he loved me," Tanya said.

"For a while, maybe," Mia said. She eyed the plain, gray suit that the girl was wearing. "But in that thing I can see why he looked elsewhere."

"We could teach you," Lonnie offered. "We could turn you into an entirely different person – one that didn't lose men to other women."

"Women would lose men to you," Sarah said.

"Why would you do that for me?" Tanya asked suspiciously. "What would you get out of it?"

"Why Tanya, we women must stick together," Lonnie said. "Besides, you can't do any worse. What's the harm in trying?"

"She will not do it," Sarah sniffed. "She is too afraid to change."

"I'm not afraid!" Tanya argued.

"Is that a 'yes' I hear?" Mia dared.

Tanya threw back her shoulders. "Yes it is," she said forcefully.

"Well then," Lonnie said, lifting her glass. "Welcome to our little family, Tanya."

Four glasses lightly clinked together.

KRKRKRKR

"You can't do it," Devon said, vehemently shaking his head. The hour was late, his day having been unexpectedly lengthened by Jennifer's arrival. With the girl safely tucked in her old bed, the two men could finally meet privately to discuss the matter. They had resigned to their preferred 'meeting place', known as the study to most people. There was a chess board in between their chairs, but the pieces had yet to be moved.

"She's corrupted him," Wilton argued. "I have to do something before…before he finds himself in more trouble than Elizabeth can buy him out of."

"It's been too long," Devon disagreed, "and according to Jennifer, there is no possible reason that could compel Garthe to return."

"Then what am I supposed to do? Sit back and watch him turn into some… monster like his mother?" he exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air.

"Unfortunately, yes," the other man said, keeping his voice level but insistent. "Garthe has made his own choices, and he's also made it abundantly clear that he's chosen sides. It's regrettable, but-"

"_Regrettable_?" Wilton repeated incredulously, "regrettable that my own son has disregarded any sense of values and morals, let alone any sense of compassion or decency? That's not regrettable. It's unacceptable."

"What would you presume to do?" Devon pressed. "File for custody? By the time it makes its way through the court system, both children will have come of legal age, and then it will be out of everyone's hands. Besides, everyone knows that custody goes to the mother, not the father, unless you can manage to prove she's unfit. In the meantime, Elizabeth will retaliate, take Jennifer back – sadly with a legal basis to do it – and you'll condemn Jennifer to the same fate as Garthe." He sat forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and interlocking his fingers with each other. "She's been through enough, Wilton. I'm sorry that Garthe has…turned out as he has, but you still have a chance with your daughter. Don't destroy this opportunity in a mad effort to gain everything. You'll lose, and so will Jennifer."

Wilton leaned back in the chair, his elbow propped on the arm so that he could rest his chin against his fist. He stared at the empty fireplace, contemplating Devon's words. "I have a terrible feeling about this, Devon. Not about Jennifer," he corrected. He met his friend's eyes and spoke intently. "Garthe was always so impressionable and to apt to take the easy way out of a problem. It could have been changed with good parenting, but if it's encouraged…"

"I know," Devon said, and meant it, "but there are times to fight for more and times to defend what you have." He stifled a yawn, the hour catching up with him quickly. He rose and stretched out his arms before relaxing them back to his side. "You can't do both, Wilton."

If his friend wished him a good night's sleep, Wilton never heard it, and he certainly didn't acknowledge it. There would be no good night's sleep forthcoming anyway.


	16. Chapter 16

They had been underbid.

_Again_.

By the same company.

"We have a mole," Devon announced with great certainty, dropping a file down on Wilton's desk with a flourish of his hand.

He first looked at the manila folder and then up at his friend. He had known Devon far too long not to recognize the determined look, and though he was beginning to suspect the same, Wilton could not bring himself to readily agree. "You don't know that," he said. "They could simply be able to carry out the contract with less profit."

"Like hell," Devon sniffed. He jabbed a finger at the folder as he glared at Wilton. "We were undercut by a mere two thousand dollars. The first time, six months ago, I dismissed it. It does happen from time to time, after all. The second time, I was willing to chalk it up to coincidence, but we've been losing contracts right and left for the past three months! Even your own daughter could see the trend."

Wilton frowned in disapproval. "She is busy enough with her first year of college. She doesn't need to be brought into these matters."

"She brings herself into them," Devon argued and then waved dismissively, "but that's not the point. If a teenager has noticed, you can bet others have, too. The trail is sloppy. There's not even a hint at trying to cover it up."

"Then you have a suspect?"

Devon straightened. "Well, no," he admitted, "but that doesn't mean I won't soon," he sniffed.

"A slander suit could cost this company far more than any loss of contracts," Wilton warned, "and the pattern could still be a coincidence. Who would want to steal from us? Surely not the employees. They're all paid well."

"They're the only ones with access to the information," Devon reminded, "and no one is ever paid well enough."

"I can't believe it."

The Englishman sighed, fighting the urge to shake his head. Wilton Knight was not ignorant, but he did have a tendency to believe that most everyone else that worked for him upheld the same values that he did. It was absolutely astounding given the first failed partnership, the divorce, and Garthe's increasingly troubled decisions. Devon did not bring this up, however. None of those three subjects were _ever_ brought up in Wilton's presence. "You cannot ensure people's loyalty with a paycheck. You know that. There is always more to want, and there are those who will stop at nothing to get it. I've gone over the past bids. There are five companies on a rotating basis that manage to underbid us by incredibly small amounts. That is _not_ coincidence."

Wilton opened the folder and flipped through the pages, the information on them confirming what Devon said. "These are all small contracts," he said.

"Small contracts add up to a big profit – and one we're not getting because someone is selling us out," Devon insisted.

"Are you sure we just don't need a better negotiator?" he asked, glancing up at Devon.

Devon folded his arms and leveled a look. He knew that Wilton was just trying to irritate him, but blast it! He did! "You're more than welcome to do it yourself and let _me_ oversee that idiotic wondercar you've been tinkering with while Knight Industries loses money hand over fist."

"The Knight Automated Roving Robot is _not_ idiotic," Wilton defended. "There isn't one person on this earth who hasn't dreamed of an accident-free car." He eyed Devon. "Well, two people on this earth, anyway."

"I have no problem with the idea of an accident-free automobile. I do have a little apprehension about creating an accident-free _tank_. Or even more appalling, a tank that _thinks_."

"It isn't a monster, Devon. It's just like X."

"That's supposed to convince me?" he asked, his eyebrows climbing upwards.

"You are going to have to make your peace with X some day," Wilton argued.

"I don't make niceties with shoeboxes, talking or otherwise," Devon said with finality. "I'll put myself in front of KARR first."

The sudden image of Devon at the center of KARR's aiming prow made Wilton glad that humans had never learned telepathy. He did have to struggle to hide an evil grin, but years of practice helped considerably. "Was there anything else?" he asked with carefully placed exasperation.

"_Anything else_? What are you going to do about the mole?"

"I thought you were handling it."

Devon struggled not to roll his eyes. "It's going to take more than _my_ efforts," he said as if giving a lecture to a particularly slow class. "_I_ certainly can't watch everyone. We need outside help. Maybe a private investigator-"

Wilton's snort cost Devon his tentative control and he did roll his eyes this time. "Don't look like that," Wilton argued. "If someone would take the initiative, we would have someone who _could _handle that sort of thing."

"Not the Foundation again," Devon groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Hiring lawyers to handle some trampled rights are one thing. They're an excellent tax write-off. You want to take the law into your own hands!"

"Well why not? It worked in the West, and it certainly does no good to follow the law if the criminals bend it at the leisure," Wilton said heatedly, falling back into the same argument that they had had two weeks ago.

Devon seemed to realize that it was repetitive, too. "I'm not going into this right now. Knight Industries has enough trouble with its own affairs, and the government is already starting to whisper about a monopoly. We don't need to draw more attention to ourselves with you picking and choosing which laws you want to follow. I certainly didn't survive World War II in order to wind up in prison. Now can we please focus on the problem at hand?"

"Do you know what your problem is?"

Devon sighed heavily. "If I say yes, can we drop it?"

"You have no foresight. No imagination. If I followed your example, I would still be in Chicago."

"And I might still be in England," Devon said, somewhat wistfully.

"Don't you British ever think outside the box?"

"Don't start with the Yankee-Doodle speech," he warned. "Just play with your car. I don't even know why I bothered to bring it up."

"Oh, don't get sore," Wilton said, afraid that he might have pushed too far when Devon started to leave. "I tell you what. The best way to catch a mole is to dangle a piece of bait that is too good to pass up and draw him into the open. When everyone goes home, we'll come up with a plan to catch him. Agreed?"

Mildly placated, Devon agreed with a nod of his head.

"Excuse me, Mr. Miles," a soft voice said as she stepped to the side to avoid bumping into him as he walked out of the office.

Devon stopped and turned. "Tanya?" he said, his brow furrowed.

She turned with a smile. "Yes?"

"You look…different," he said.

She tossed her shoulder-length hair with her right hand. "A friend suggested I should try to be a blonde for a while. What do you think?" she asked, rather flippantly.

"It's…nice," he said politely, caught somewhat off-guard by her boldness.

"Thanks!" she chirped and continued into the office.

Devon stared after her for a moment, his head tilted thoughtfully to one side. Then, giving his head a small shake, he descended the stairs. He had never seen the normally painfully shy woman so assertive. It was rather attractive, but that stayed a fleeting thought. He was too preoccupied with catching a spy. He quickly filed that observation into the back of his mind and vowed to keep it to himself. Wilton would never cease teasing him if he mentioned it. There were times when Wilton acted very adolescent.

Devon paused at the bottom of the staircase and rested against the banister, observing the various employees going about their errands. Most nodded their heads or offered a smile as they passed him, which he politely returned. He knew everyone by name; it was hard not to when he saw them so many days a week. Branching out beyond those at the Estate, he actually interacted with only a handful. The Board members, of course, had been committed to memory immediately. A few high-ranking employees were also easily recalled, along with those scientists who stood out from the rest. Yet, the vast majority were unknown. Knight Industries did, after all, have satellite companies across the country and the globe. He could hardly be expected to keep track of thousands. For the most part, however, they were of little consequence so it did not concern him. None of them would have access to the sensitive information that was somehow making its way beyond the borders of the company. The thief would have to be here, on this estate, with clearance to top-secret information. That would mean that the person or persons were someone he knew, someone he worked with each day. Any one of those people who were currently acknowledging his presence might be secretly pandering information for an all too lucrative profit. It was rather hard not to take it personally. In theory, he understood greed, and he really didn't put any one of them above its influence.

Yet he did take it personally, and that betrayal did anger him, even if he did not show it or admit it in front of Wilton. He had put many years into building this company. It may bear the Knight name, but he was just as instrumental in its success as his friend's scientific genius. There was too much of himself in this company for him to stay objective when it was threatened. But Wilton didn't need to know that. Wilton also didn't need to know that he would push the charges on the mole as far as they would go, and nor did he need to know that Devon would ensure that the entire legal weight of Knight Industries would come crashing down upon the perpetrator's head. Wilton was too forgiving. One sob story and that would be the end of it. No, not this time. Not when it was this close to home.

KRKRKRKR

"You're very quiet tonight, Tanya," her date said in sincere concern. "Is the food not to your liking?"

"No, it's fine," she assured with a smile. Indeed, it was some of the best cuisine her palate had ever experienced. Then again, it was always nothing but the best when on a date with Cameron Zachary. He had rented the entire restaurant for the evening, affording her a high-rise view of Manhattan. Of course, that had been after a ride in his private jet – one of a fleet of three, so he had unashamedly boasted. He did so love to flaunt his wealth, but she would not complain, particularly with the bejeweled necklace around her throat that he had given her only the night before. She was the envy of every woman that worked for him, Lonnie included. Putting herself on his arm, she had risen to his personal assistant in just three short months, and her status kept her well ahead of the others. Whether they liked her or not, their opinion mattered little, if at all. What Cameron Zachary dictated, Cameron Zachary got, and she loved the taste of power that trickled down to her seat so close to the top of an incredible underground empire. She was quickly learning how best to keep that position, too, using many of the same manipulative tricks that Lonnie had taught her. Her feigned girlish innocence was perhaps the most powerful of all, and it kept him lusting after her and ensuring that no other woman usurped her position.

"Is it the company?" he pouted.

She reached out and rested her hand on his in assurance. "Never," she promised. "It's been such a wonderful evening, as it always is, but…" She sighed and sat back in her seat. "I'm worried."

"About?" he prompted, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin and setting the soft cloth on the table.

"It's Devon Miles. He's discovered that someone has been feeding information to their competitors."

"You're certain?"

"I overheard him talking to Mr. Knight this afternoon."

"Does he know who?"

She shook her head. "He can't exactly prove that there is even a problem, but… he knows."

"Ah," he said, his features relaxing into a paternal smile. "Suspicion and supposition. They can't stand up in a court of law, darling."

"He's a very intelligent man, Cammie," she said, using her private nickname for him. "He can't be distracted like Knight."

"You have been careful not to leave a trail, haven't you?" he admonished.

"Yes, of course."

"Then why don't you point that trail to someone else?"

"How?"

"Now darling, haven't you been around me long enough to learn at least a little of the art of deception?"

Her frown lifted. "I have been taking notes," she said coyly. "But I may need help."

"Tell me who you need and I will have them at your disposal," he promised.

Actually, she could handle it easily by herself, but it never hurt to remind the others that they were, by proxy, at her beck and call as well as Zachary's. "Let me consider it for the night and I will let you know," she said decisively.

"Excellent!" he approved. "Now, shall we return to business of a more… personal nature?" he purred, leaning forward.

She propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin daintily against her manicured hand. "Oh yes," she said silkily, her blue eyes holding him helplessly captive in their depths. "Please do."

KRKRKRKR

X zipped and zagged through the forest of feet. It spent lengthy time in the office sector, its curiosity insatiable when it came to humans. Their logic was not always understandable, and yet they managed to function as a cohesive group to accomplish the tasks set before them. The little robot was most usually ignored, although a few, particularly the women, saw it as a pet and would coo at it. X found it rather irritating, but it was infinitely preferable to an unwanted trip across the room by way of the toe of someone's shoe. It did, on occasion, venture outside to the hangar, but those in that building were much less tolerant to its presence. They had become increasingly impatient as whispers of a large project circulated throughout the estate. It had overheard its creator mention something of a new artificial intelligence, and if that were true, X would like to make its acquaintance. It felt no jealousy at the idea; if anything, having another like-minded computer around would most certainly relieve much of its boredom that it so desperately sought to alleviate.

There was one way of decreasing its idleness. It had developed into a game of sorts, though X was really the only one who enjoyed it. The idea was simple: X would see how far it could push Devon before he lost his temper, and then it had to beat it into the "neutral zone" (a.k.a. somewhere within Wilton's line of sight). Always before, it had made it, but should there be an instance where it failed, X was positive that the consequences would be quite dire. It had logged Devon's threats and was amassing quite a list of just what could be done to a robot. So far, though, it had yet to lose and, when things turned slow, X turned to the Englishman. Now that everyone was leaving at the end of the day, it was presented with one of those opportunities.

Devon continually complained to his friend that X antagonized him deliberately, but Wilton refused to believe that X could be that self-aware. Mores the pity for Devon, but it was a considerable advantage to X, which was self-aware enough to recognize it.

The door was ajar, a tactical error on Devon's part. X nudged it open just enough to creep inside, scanning for any evidence of a mallet. Devon's demonic version of tag had come very close to proving destructive to X. It did not wish to play again.

Devon was at his desk, once again working past hours. X dodged a crumpled piece of paper, though the aim did not appear to be deliberate. "A computer would have had the task completed by now," X goaded.

The man scowled but didn't spare the android a glance. It continually grated on his nerves that X saw fit to reveal its true intelligence only in front of Devon. It wasn't for Devon's lack of trying to show Wilton exactly what he had inadvertently created, but X always seemed to be one step ahead of him and feigned complete ignorance in his creator's presence. Wilton was now convinced that it was some sort of running joke.

Devon scoffed at X, "A computer wouldn't begin to understand the problem."

"You are not qualified to make that assumption," it countered.

Devon clenched his teeth. "Go away."

X stayed. "What is the problem description?" it asked, its curiosity overriding its primary intent for being in the office.

"You don't understand enough about people," he argued.

"You are not qualified to make that assumption," it repeated stubbornly.

Knowing from experience that the fastest way to get rid of X was to answer its question, Devon explained tersely, "I'm setting a trap."

"Please restate."

"Someone has been stealing company secrets. I'm going to find out who."

"That is not above my comprehension. That is deductive reasoning – pure logic."

"Only if you have all the facts. I don't."

"Hence, 'the trap'."

"Yes."

"How do you set a trap without knowing who you are intending to catch?"

"I told you that you wouldn't understand," Devon reminded.

"My comprehension requires clarification only – not a review of the principle basis."

"Then go ask Wilton. I'm busy."

"Yet you are conversing with me," X said smugly.

That did it. Devon rose quickly from his chair as X beat it for the door, the carpet slowing its pace. Before Devon was even halfway across the room, the door slammed shut so quickly that X bounced off the wood. Devon reached down and picked up the stunned robot. "Once again, man triumphs over machine," he said with satisfaction. "I had the mechanism installed yesterday."

"Then it was not by your intelligence that I was caught," X countered haughtily.

"I would reconsider my attitude if I were you," he warned, carrying X to the window behind his desk.

"Wilton will be displeased!" X threatened, its voice becoming louder in urgency.

"Wilton won't know," Devon returned calmly as he unlatched the window and pushed it open. X's wheels spun madly, unaware that Devon's attention had been distracted until it heard him murmur in shock, "Good Lord!"

X's camera adjusted to view its precarious distance from the ground. Logic dictated that the only reason Devon had not followed through on his implied threat was because of the tall man he spotted rising from the red BMW. Its facial recognition software was momentarily stumped by the young man, though his familiarity was not unnoticed to X. Puberty had obviously been kind to him as, though he was no older than sixteen or seventeen, he did not exhibit the unusual proportions so common to a teenage body that gave them their lanky awkwardness. One might even describe him as a strapping fellow, his presence physically imposing even from X's height above the ground. "Who is he?" X queried.

"Garthe Knight," Devon answered, his voice deeply suspicious. He pulled X away as he stepped mostly out of view from the driveway.

"You are not pleased," X stated.

Devon shushed it and explained in a whisper, too distracted to remember his animosity, "He's adamantly refused to have anything to do with his father since the divorce. Most of the information Wilton has gathered on him is worrisome to say the least. Rumor has it that he has slipped into the Hungarian mafia. His hands have been dirtied from everything from extortion to drugs – possibly murder, but they can't prove it."

"Illogical. He has no material needs that would warrant such a risk of freedom or life."

"No, but he has been horribly warped under Elizabeth's influence. Revenge against Wilton is the only thing that seems to drive him – except perhaps his greed." He watched with a feeling of dread as Garthe stepped up to the porch and entered the mansion. Still carrying X, Devon crossed the office and opened the door. He was about to intercept Garthe, having already released X back to the floor, but Wilton beat him to it before he could leave the office.

"Garthe!" Wilton gasped, having just begun to make his migration from his office to Devon's in order to discuss their security problem.

"Father," Garthe's deep voice rumbled levelly as he stood at the base of the stairs.

Devon pulled the door to a crack and X, who was usually so daring, hid behind him to listen.

Wilton descended the first two stairs. "How long have you been in the country?"

"A few days," he answered, his cold blue eyes boring into his father's. "Some…_friends _needed a delivery completed and found me to be the most convenient candidate since I have 'family' here." _Family,_ at this point, was spoken with a sneer. He slowly reached out, fingering a Ming vase that rested upon an end table to his right. "Knight Industries has been doing well for itself. Your…technology seems to be serving you well."

Wilton continued a slow but steady descent. "What friends, Garthe? Who would send you so far and why?" He hovered two steps from the bottom, putting himself above his son's height.

Garthe only smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes; only eerie satisfaction. "I thought you would be pleased to see me. Not questioning why I am here. My sister was welcomed, wasn't she?" he dared.

"I don't think you are here to be welcomed. Your sister grew tired of the world you seem to embrace."

"My sister is weak," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "She was so blindly naïve, refusing to accept the truth. Mother was glad to be rid of her – she had obviously chosen sides…the wrong one at that. But that's fine. She'll get what's coming to her."

Wilton stepped down, his eyes flashing. "Jennifer wants nothing to do with either of you. She's your sister, for God's sake! Whatever your feelings for me should not ensnarl her! And know this, Garthe, and you can pass it onto your mother: I will _not_ tolerate any harm to her."

Garthe released a blow with his fist, the movement resembling the sudden release of a coiled spring. Wilton had no defense. He had not anticipated the threat and therefore took the full impact of the fist across his jaw, causing his head to snap back as his body stumbled off-balance.

Devon sprinted from his eavesdropping place, acting almost before he was consciously aware of it. He took the stairs quickly, dropping down beside his fallen friend as Garthe stood watching. "That's what I wanted to do to you that day," Garthe snarled at Wilton, any pretense of civility gone, "but I was too small and you were too big. Well, now _I'm_ big, Father. You can stand here in this world of technology, fooling people into believing you are a kind and decent person – but I know better and so does Mother. One day, we will be back, and we'll take what's rightfully ours, and anything that you stood for will be destroyed, and anyone who stands by you-" His eyes fell blazing on Devon. "-will be destroyed, too."

Devon rose to his feet, his hands clenching down into fists. Wilton was too dazed to respond, but Devon was not. "Get out, Garthe," Devon warned, his voice shaking with barely restrained fury. "Get out and don't even think about setting foot on this property again."

Garthe only laughed at him. "Father really is a fool! Only a fool would let a man who betrayed him and his family back into such a strong position! I'll see you in Hell, 'Uncle Devon'," he said and walked out of the room, slamming the door in his wake.

"Not if I send you there first," Devon murmured under his breath, shaken from the encounter. He knelt back beside his friend, helping Wilton sit up. "Are you all right?" he asked, truly concerned.

Wilton fought the urge to cross his eyes under the pain of the mild concussion, and he gingerly rubbed his jaw. His legs were unsteady as he was assisted to his feet, and he used the banister for support, all the youth drained from him and replaced suddenly with age. "I will be…fine…" he answered painfully. He slowly turned to the stairs and began to ascend them.

"Wilton?" Devon queried, the name asking so much.

Wilton paused, his head and shoulders slumped. A blow to the face would heal with time. The blow to his heart would never mend. He didn't say this aloud, but he knew it, and he knew that Garthe knew it, and he knew that Elizabeth knew it. "Jennifer does not need to know what transpired tonight," he said gravely without looking back.

Devon watched helplessly as his friend ascended the stairs. He desperately wished for something to say, anything to lessen the destructiveness of Garthe's comments, but he could not come up with one sound word of comfort, not even one antiquated piece of advice.

X rolled up to him, its camera following Devon's line of sight, but it only caught the closing of Wilton's office door. "You were correct," it said.

"About what?" Devon sighed, too drained to really fight with X.

"I do not understand enough about people," it answered.

He looked at the android in sheer startled astonishment, but there was no sarcastic comment following X's observation. He glanced up the staircase. "Neither do I," he confessed quietly.

KRKRKRKR

There was a very expensive car parked in the shadows just off of the Knight estate. Tanya Walker should have been home hours before, but she sat in the shadows and watched the activity at the mansion. With her manicured hand, she lifted the car phone to her ear and spoke quietly.

"It's me. You'll never guess who just paid a visit to his father…Garthe Knight. Wilton Knight didn't kill the fatted calf, that's for sure. This is our perfect chance to start moving in…No, the Knight Automated Roving Robot is still being built. If we wait for it, it may be too late! Yes, yes, I know darling. You are the brains of the operation…No of course I don't want to move prematurely, but I'm going to have to do something if we're going to stay longer…Yes, tell Lonnie to sharpen her secretarial skills. There's going to be an opening very soon. I'll handle it. Bye, Honey."


	17. Chapter 17

Tanya smiled to herself as she returned the receiver to its cradle. She had listened to the argument between father and son thanks to one of three bugs she had planted in the Knight Mansion. She had even sympathetically winced at the punch thrown at her employer, but those meager feelings of human compassion evaporated quickly as she considered the scenario that was unfolding before her. For the past two weeks, she had grown increasingly concerned about Miles's dogged determination to uncover the paper trail that was sneaking its way to Knight's top competitors. She had, in fact, grown so concerned that she had refused Cameron any more schematics until further notice. But this…this was too good to be true! Garthe Knight had been the ultimate disappointment to his father and the bane of Miles's existence, a fact well known among the staff but only spoken in hushed whispers. Cameron had verified these facts, and he even remarked that had Garthe Knight not been of such an unstable nature, he would have recruited him into the fold. Unintentionally and unknowingly, however, Wilton's son would become a very key element to a plan that was steadily taking shape in her mind. She now had her distraction, and one that could not be linked back to herself. With both men no doubt reeling from their encounter with Garthe, Miles would be less interested in corporate espionage and more worried about his friend. Wilton Knight, as he was always wont to do, and would become _more_ interested in his pet projects and ignore the rest of the company. Through the office grapevine, she had learned that it was a well-established pattern. She had even seen evidence of it herself. Morbidly, she lamented that a death in the family would have been much better, but she did like a challenge to the game.

KRKRKRKRKR

Tanya carried a stack of manila folders up the stairs to Wilton's office. She smiled at a descending errand boy, pretending not to notice the double-take and near-stumble that came very close to leading to a fall. She was completely out of his league, but she let him window shop. It certainly didn't hurt her ego.

Shifting the folders under her left arm, she knocked twice and opened the door. Only a year ago, she would have stood in the hall and waited to be acknowledged. Now, she strode in as if the room were her own office. "Latest updates on that chemical plant," she announced, pulling off the top folder from the small stack and placing it before the head of Knight Industries. She waited for a reply or at least a curt nod, but none was forthcoming. His chair was turned slightly away from her, and he toyed with a model of a sports car, his eyes glazed and distant. She lowered her folders onto a stack on his desk. Her fingers edged down so that when she lifted the folders back up, two more went with them. She tucked them in the crook of her arm and stepped around the desk. "It's a beautiful machine," she commented. "It's so sleek. What kind of car is that?"

Drawn from his thoughts, Wilton looked up into her inquisitive gaze. He then looked down at the car in his hands, having forgotten that he was holding it. He held it up a little higher. "What you are looking at is the Knight Automated Roving Robot."

"Robot?" she repeated, accepting the model into her hand when he extended it to her. "I didn't think that Knight Industries made toys."

"Hardly a toy," he said dryly. He nodded his head at the car. "That is a scale model. The _real_ one is much, much bigger."

Her eyes widened as she carefully set it down on his desk. "Incredible," she murmured. "You know, I've always had a fascination with technology," she admitted. "Once I save up enough money, I'm going to go to college to learn all about it," she declared emphatically. Her cheeks tinted color ever so slightly. "Sorry, Mr. Knight. You probably have a lot more important things to do than hear me talk. I'll leave you to your work."

"Actually…not at the moment," he confessed, seeking a distraction from his morose thoughts of the night before. Today _would_ be the one day with no meetings and everything running smoothly. Even Devon had mysteriously disappeared, but it was not entirely unusual for his friend to leave without warning – though it was still annoying. "What area of technology interests you?"

"You won't laugh?" she asked doubtfully. "Everyone teases me for it."

"I promise," he said, even holding up his hand to verify his word.

She glanced behind her as if afraid that she might be overheard. "Engineering," she finally confessed. Her shoulders slumped. "But no one will take me seriously."

"I do," he said, sitting forward. He gestured for her to sit.

She did and heaved a sigh.

"Very few ever took me seriously either," he commiserated, "but now they do. Determination and hard work, Ms. Walker. You can never go wrong with those."

"I can't imagine people not listening to you," Tanya said with wide-eyed innocence. "You're one of the richest men in the world!"

He smiled slightly, but it was rueful. "Monetarily," Wilton answered quietly. Then, in a more normal tone, he elaborated, "But I came from an anonymous background." Seeing her idly turn the model car on the desk, he asked, almost cautiously, "Would you like to see the real one?"

"Could I?" she asked, growing excited. "Oh, I would love to!"

"Excellent," he said, rising from his seat. "I was about to check on things myself." He paused, bracing himself against the desk as a twinge of pain rippled down the side of his right leg.

"Are you all right?" she asked, noticing his grimace.

"Yes," he said, the spasm passing. "But I do advise that you never become old." He circled around the desk and extended his arm, which she took with a smile, and he led her from the office.

KRKRKRKRKR

"You can imagine my surprise to hear from you, Devon," the slender man said as he sat at the restaurant table. His black hair had just begun to bleach around the temples. It did not detract from his appearance. Rather, it seemed to enhance the wrinkled skin around his eyes and mouth, and the dark suit that he wore to give him a distinguished appearance. His accent was unmistakably British, and, with the teacup in his hand, he seemed more of a stereotype than a person. "Particularly to fly me from a Washington conference in your company's private jet. It's been, what, eight years? Ten years?"

"Nothing nearly so appalling," Devon answered with a wave of his hand. "Five years."

"Oh yes, of course," he said, leaning back in his seat as his memory cleared. He lowered the teacup to its saucer. "You were still in Washington, D.C. You never did tell me what caused you return to that American. From your description of him, you would have been better off to remain where you were."

"My reasons are my own, Alistair," he said, his tone a subtle warning the man not to press the issue any further. Despite the long length of time he had known this man, Devon was adamant about not discussing either his return to California or why he had left in the first place. Even with Wilton, the subject had never been brought into conversation. "However, I'm afraid there is an underlying reason for this meeting."

"You did mention needing a favor," Alistair said. "So why call an old Scotland Yard inspector? You know my jurisdiction isn't extended to this country."

"It isn't Scotland Yard that I need," he said, dropping his voice as he leaned forward so as not to be heard beyond that table. "It's your other informational connections."

His demeanor changed to a much more serious one, and his voice also dropped. "You know I hate dealing with reporters. They develop this delusion that I owe them."

"I know, but you know some of the best in the business. You're probably related to half of them."

"Yes, and I became the black sheep for breaking the tradition," he said dryly. "What can the BBC do for you?"

"Nothing more than a little research," Devon answered, tugging on his ear.

"What kind of research could you possibly need that you couldn't ask in a phone call?" Alistair asked, folding his arms skeptically as he regarded his long-time friend. "Why bring me here personally?"

"Garthe Knight paid a little visit last night," he explained, his voice low.

The Inspector's brow furrowed. "Garthe Knight…I've heard that name."

"I mentioned him before – he's Wilton Knight's son."

"Ah, I remember," Alistair said with a nod of his head. "I take it from the look on your face that the visit wasn't planned?"

"It wasn't wanted," Devon said, his voice dropping deeper with a momentary lapse of his temper. He quickly reined it back under control. "He had been working his way up an Eastern European mafia chain, according to a few sources of mine. He'd escaped trial twice because of payoffs and a sudden lack of evidence."

"Sounds like a colorful fellow," Alistair commented dryly. "Are you seeking to open the old cases? Because I can warn you from experience, it's a waste of time."

He shook his head. "I want to know what he's up to now. He was so full of himself that he must be planning something."

"I'm not sure what could be found on him," Devon's friend said, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. "He sounds like small fish to me."

"Small fish grow bigger in time," Devon warned. "Every exploit of his is a little worse than the one before. He's a man with no conscience and thrives on vengeance. I wouldn't be surprised if he wound up at the top of the list some day, but right now, my concern is the threat he might pose to Wilton Knight and Knight Industries."

The Inspector released a breath. "You do have peculiar loyalties, Devon," he said, sounding somewhat amused. "But your instincts are usually sound. Very well. I might have a cousin or two who can help."

"I appreciate it, Alistair. I owe you for this."

"Oh, I think this is a nice beginning," he said with a grin and pushed the dinner check toward his friend.

Devon opened the black case and looked at the bill. Wilton didn't know it, but it was about to be listed as a business expense.

KRKRKRKR

"Did you see Tanya?" Antonia Young sneered hatefully, her back turned away from the rest of the room as she spoke quietly with her long-time friend, Barbara Wood.

The older of the two by about six years, Barbara was always interested in gossip, and Antonia seemed to be a fountain of information. She could never figure out how her friend consistently managed to know everything about everyone, particularly since she had only been with Knight Industries for about a year. Well aware of Antonia's inability to keep a secret, Barbara was always careful to keep her own personal life beneath her friend's radar, but it was no secret that she loathed Tanya Walker. Most of the secretaries did. The peroxide blonde had somehow appointed herself Wilton Knight's personal secretary, in an unofficial capacity, but she never wasted an opportunity to remind the others how important she thought she was. Barbara had been positive that Tanya would have been gone by now, but she had been wrong. However, she kept her dislike of the woman mainly to herself, but Antonia displayed her animosity for the woman like a campaign slogan. "What did she do this time?" Barbara sighed.

"I saw her hanging onto Mr. Knight's arm, looking up at him with those big doe eyes," she spat with a hiss. She clasped her hands to her heart dramatically as she lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "Oh, Mr. Knight, I'm just such a poor, naïve girl. Poor, poor me."

Barbara suppressed a snicker. "You really shouldn't do that around here. The wrong person might overhear you, and then you'd be in trouble."

"Well, what makes her so special?" Antonia huffed, looking ready to stomp her foot. "She was a lot easier to deal with when she jumped at her own shadow. At least she did her own work. Maybe the peroxide bleached her personality. Sometimes I just want to-"

"Keep the rest of that sentence to yourself," she warned the younger woman. "I don't want to be considered an accessory to murder."

"Uh-oh. Speak of the devil," Antonia murmured, glancing back at the doors that led to the office. She broke away from Barbara and returned to her own desk, pointedly turning her back.

Tanya walked inside, manila folders held to her chest. She smiled at a few as she passed. Seemingly oblivious to the thinly veiled hostility radiating from Antonia like a fever, Tanya approached. "Antonia, do you think you could make a copy of some papers for me? I was with Mr. Knight and time just slipped away from me!" she said with a light, airy laugh.

"That isn't all that slipped away," Antonia muttered under her breath. "I have my own work," she said at a normal level.

Barbara made her way back to her own desk on the other side of the room, not wanting to see the fireworks that were coming dangerously close to erupting.

"But it wouldn't take long, and I do have other things to do," Tanya pouted, fumbling with the folders. "In fact, I have it right…oops!" One of the folders tumbled off, the papers scattering on the floor in front of Antonia. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she apologized as Antonia bent down to gather them. "Here, let me help." Tanya knelt down as her left hand slipped one of the folders from her stack into the open attaché case resting beside Antonia's chair.

She shoved the papers into Tanya's arms. "Why don't you go sweet-talk someone else," she snapped. "I'm sure there's some guy around here who will fall all over himself to do your bidding."

"Why, I don't know what you mean," the blonde said, feigning hurt. She straightened the papers and tucked them back into the folder. "I've only ever tried to be nice to you."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." Antonia turned back to her computer, pointedly ignoring her.

With a heavy sigh loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room, Tanya left her alone.

KRKRKRKRKR

It had become instinct for Devon to lash out with his foot in the direction of the high-pitched whirring sound that quickly preceded X's appearance. The little robot was too quick to be caught by such a crude maneuver, but he hoped that one day he would clip it. "X, go away!" Devon snapped at the android as he climbed out of his Mercedes.

X zipped and zagged, ignoring, as usual, Devon's irritated tone. "I request information."

"Read a book," he answered tersely, closing the driver's door and locking it. He walked out of the multi-car garage, the android right on his heels. He tried twice to back-kick it, but this day was obviously not going to be his lucky one.

"I am incapable of performing that task without assistance," X declared.

Devon rolled his eyes to the sky, the sun now making its trek toward the distant horizon. Despite the springtime weather and the slowly lengthening daylight, the days were still shorter than he preferred. "Go ask Wilton."

"His superior intelligence would be preferable to your inferior grasp of basic principles, but he is currently occupied."

Devon stopped and glared at the little robot. "My 'inferior grasp' of basic principles is obviously better than yours, else you wouldn't be pestering me with questions," he shot back.

"On the contrary. In comparison with the knowledge that I possess, the information gained by the answer to this question is a ratio too small for you to grasp," it answered haughtily.

"Then, logically, it would be a waste of time to ask," he said smartly and started walking.

X accelerated to catch up with him. "Actually, it would have been more efficient to answer my question rather than to debate whether or not it should be asked," it argued.

"Fine," Devon said in annoyance, growing impatient and hoping to get rid of it. "What is the all-important question?"

"Does Hell have changing seasons?"

He stopped in mid-stride, his left foot hesitating before it returned to the walkway leading to the rear of the mansion. "You pestered me to ask an asinine question like _that_?"

"It is important," X defended.

"How could that possibly be important?"

"Because I can return to the Hangar when there is a cold day in Hell," it answered.

He was about to give a smart remark for an answer, but he stopped himself. Instead, he spoke in a calm voice, "Off the top of my head, I don't know when the winter season is, but why don't you go pester, ah, _ask_ the meteorologists for a forecast? And don't let them tell you that it's impossible to find out. They're just being stubborn. You keep after them until they help you."

X scurried off to one of the labs at the far end of the property line. Why Wilton had thought that his own meteorology department would help business, Devon would never know. He himself was quite content to look at the sky and make a reasonable judgment. However, he did not have the final say in spending, and he had learned long ago that there were some arguments that were simply not worth pursuing.

Devon might have felt sorry for the unsuspecting scientists about to get their first real taste of artificial intelligence, but they had teased him about his nationality too many times for there to be any sympathy left. _Enjoy_, he thought smugly to himself.

His momentary elation of being free from X died quickly when he had gone into Wilton's office to announce his return and found his friend searching frantically through what had once been a neatly stacked pile of folders. "What's the matter?" Devon asked with a concerned frown.

"The latest revisions for the Robot," Wilton answered distractedly. "I finally figured out the flaw that was causing so much trouble in the processor, but I can't find the schematics."

"You're certain?" he asked, stiffening.

"Of course I'm certain!" he said curtly. "I was working on it this morning."

"When was the last time you saw them?"

"I don't know." Wilton stopped and ran his hand through his thinning hair. "I guess this morning. I'd put the folders right there," he said, gesturing with both hands at the corner of the desk. "I'm almost certain it was there when I went to the hangar…" He looked around the room.

"I don't suppose you thought to lock your office?" Devon asked.

"Well…no," Wilton said, having the grace to look somewhat embarrassed. "But I can't believe that anyone-"

"Wilton, we've been fighting a leak for months!" Devon exclaimed in exasperation. "It has to be someone in this company."

"Um…excuse me," a voice said from behind him, causing Devon to turn. Tanya held up a manila folder. "I…I really hate to do this…I…I saw it and I was sure that they weren't supposed to have it…I didn't know what to do, but…" She held it nervously out to the Englishman.

Devon took it and flipped it open. Recognition flitted across his face and his mouth curled downward even farther. He held up the folder for Wilton to see it. "Where did you get this?" Devon asked her, closing it shut.

"It could have been a mistake, right?" she asked worriedly. "I wouldn't have even recognized the label except that Mr. Knight showed me the KARR, and I didn't think she was supposed to have it. I don't want to get the person in trouble. I just thought maybe if I return it to you-"

"Ms. Walker, do you know the meaning of corporate espionage?" Devon asked warningly.

"Yes, but…" Her eyes widened. "You don't think it was _me_, do you? I was with Mr. Knight! I couldn't have! And I found it on Antonia's desk, not-" She clamped her hand over her mouth.

"Antonia Young?" Wilton asked. "She's been here for at least a year."

"But the timetable fits," Devon said. "It wasn't long afterwards that we started having…incidents." To Tanya, he asked, "Is she still here?"

"She was getting ready to leave, but why-" Tanya was brushed aside by the two men, and she only followed them to just outside of the office. There, she stopped, watching the entire scenario unfold from her vantage point. She saw Antonia blocked as she left the office, the quick-tempered woman growing indignant. She saw the woman angrily open her attaché case and hold it out for them to inspect, which was quickly followed by a desperate protest as Devon pulled out the planted file from its interior. By now, others were coming out of the office to see what was going on, and she could easily hear the heated conversation. Antonia's temper was her downfall, making her look even more guilty.

Feeling a pair of eyes on her, she singled out one of the employees – Barbara, Tanya remembered the name. Even from the second story, Tanya could sense her hatred and suspicion, but this woman did not lose control like the other one. If anything, Tanya would describe her as dangerously quiet and calm, which bothered Tanya. Emotions, particularly raging ones, were easy to handle because it left the situation in her control, but those eyes gave away nothing but contempt and knowing. Barbara _knew_ what Tanya had done, but she could not prove it, else she would have told Knight and Miles as they interrogated Antonia. Perhaps it was a sixth sense that warned Tanya, or maybe she simply read it in the woman's expression as the security guards came to lead Antonia outside, but she knew that this woman was now just as much a threat as the nosy gossip Tanya had just removed to make room for Lonnie.

It was a relief to Tanya when Barbara turned her attention away, speaking desperately to her employers. Tanya surmised that it was probably to tell them that Antonia would never do such a thing and that there must be a mistake, which was a useless act. The timetable was too perfect, and the circumstantial evidence was mounting. That didn't stop Barbara, and Tanya suspected that Barbara would be watching her more carefully. Tanya would mention her concern to Cameron, but she already knew his answer. If the woman was a threat, get rid of her and anyone else who could pose a problem to their plans.

Unnoticed by those below her, Tanya's gaze fell directly on Devon Miles.


	18. Chapter 18

"I didn't do it! I swear I didn't do it!" Antonia wailed, pushing herself up from the uncomfortable wooden chair. Her face was tear-streaked and her eyes puffy from the constant bouts of crying through the previous night in the jail cell. Her clothes were wrinkled and her hair was moderately tangled, as if it had been worse but she had tried to tame it with her fingers.

Barbara watched sympathetically from the other side of the table centered exactly within the plain walls of the interrogation room. "They caught you with the file," she countered. "Think, Antonia, think! How could it have gotten there?"

"I don't know! I don't know!" She ran her fingers through her hair again. "I never touched those files! I wouldn't touch those files! I wouldn't even know what to do with those files! If Tanya hadn't…" Her arms dropped to her side as her spine stiffened. She turned slowly back to Barbara. "Tanya," she repeated. She sat back down in her seat and leaned forward, her arms resting on the tabletop as she emphasized her words with her hands. "It had to be Tanya. Remember when she dropped that file? She was right there! And she was in Mr. Knight's office! She set me up! Surely someone must have seen!"

"If they did, they would have said something," she reminded. "No one likes Tanya. Besides, just because she dropped a folder, you still can't prove that she put that folder in your case. _You_ were caught with it. _You_ flew off the handle."

Antonia looked suitably abashed. "Well, what was I supposed to do? They were accusing me of something I didn't do!"

"Your temper made you look guiltier," Barbara argued. "It didn't help that you called Mr. Miles a pompous jackass either."

"He is a pompous jackass," she said nastily. "Shaking that folder in my face and yelling at me."

"That was _after_ you called him a pompous jackass," Barbara reminded with a shake of her head. "You've really gotten yourself into a load of trouble. They're going to try and nail you for _several_ counts of corporate espionage. Do you have any idea of how many years you could spend in jail?"

Antonia deflated with one big breath of air. Her shoulders hunched as her hands fell to her lap, and she looked down at the floor. "It's terrible here, Barbara." She looked up at her friend with a fresh set of tears. "I'm really scared. You've got to help me."

"I don't know what I can do. I'm not a lawyer."

"I don't _need _a lawyer," Antonia said. "Knight Industries has hundreds of lawyers and they're all gonna come down on me. I need an ally. You've got to get me out of this."

"Bail?"

"Prove me innocent."

"_Me_? Isn't there someone-"

"You're the only one who knows enough, and you're already in there! Please, Barbara! Please!"

"You're going to break my hands!" Barbara complained, trying to free herself from Antonia's grasp. She was finally released and rubbed her reddened knuckles together. "I can't promise anything," she said, "but I'll _try_." Hearing a knock at the door, she saw a policeman motion to her. Her time was up. "Hang in there," she told the other woman. "I'll keep you posted."

"Just watch out for Tanya," Antonia warned.

"Yeah," she agreed, reaching for the door handle. "You can count on it."

KRKRKRKRKR

Barbara set her purse down beside a pile of folders that required her attention and looked back to the desk that used to belong to Antonia. A dark brunette, who appeared to have stepped right out of a fashion magazine, was seated where Antonia had sat just the previous day. It rankled Barbara, and she turned away, focusing her attention on her daily routine of making the tall stack on her desk into a short one. She pulled down the first folder and then, turning suspicious, checked through the rest of the stack for anything that might put her in the prison cell beside Antonia's. The pile seemed to be innate.

"Looking for something?"

She lifted her eyes to Tanya. "Just checking to see what has to be done," Barbara answered, swallowing her temper. The more she considered Antonia's accusation, the more it made sense. Now, as she looked up at this woman, she suddenly knew for certain that her friend was right. "Is there something you wanted?" she asked, her voice even and calm.

"Oh, no, just making conversation," Tanya answered with a small wave of her hand. "Shame what happened to your friend…she was your friend, wasn't she?"

Barbara leveled her gaze. "Do you know what amazes me, Tanya?" she asked.

"What?" Tanya asked.

"That you really think, with all the work that I have to do, I would stop to exchange pleasantries with you," Barbara answered. She opened the file on her desk. "Oh, and Tanya," she said quietly, looking back up at the blonde. She dropped her voice so that it was only heard by the other woman. "I will be on the lookout for misplaced files…just in case."

"I don't know what you mean," Tanya huffed, and walked away.

"I'm sure you don't," Barbara murmured under her breath.

KRKRKRKRKR

"X, go away!" Devon exclaimed furiously. He feigned a back-kick and managed to hit it with the side of his foot.

X tipped but turned its wheels to stop itself from falling onto its side. It sped up to catch up with Devon's fast pace toward the hangar. "Your judgment is in error."

"I will not be criticized by an outdated child's toy." He stopped short to avoid tripping over X, which had moved directly in his path. "I thought you were consulting the meteorologists!"

"The meteorologists did not incarcerate Antonia."

"_Antonia_? You mean, Ms. Young? Why does it not surprise me that you would associate yourself with a thief?" He moved to step over X, but it backed up so that it was right underneath his foot. "Don't think I won't step on you," Devon growled.

X stayed in place.

"Fine." Devon brought his foot down, but as he placed the sole of his shoe on the top of the machine, X reversed itself, flipping Devon's foot out from under him and sending him tumbling backwards into the grass. Devon let out a yell, his arms flailing, but ultimately, he landed back-first on the turf. Momentarily stunned, he hadn't the presence of mind to lash out at X as it rolled up to his head. "How did you…?"

"It is not pleasant, is it?" X asked, the human satisfaction in its voice chilling Devon.

Devon stared at the tiny lens mounted atop its 'body'. "WILTON!" Devon shouted, picking himself up from the ground. "You stay away from me," he warned X when it started to follow his running strides. "WILTON!" He rushed into the hangar. He searched the huge room, finding his friend inspecting something on one of the consoles connected to the exposed engine of the black car. "Wilton!" he exclaimed, grabbing the man's arm and nearly spinning him from momentum.

"Devon, what is the matter with you?!" Wilton asked, alarmed and annoyed by the Englishman's strange behavior. He looked up and down at Devon's disheveled attire. "What happened to you?"

"It's that…that…_monster_! I've told you again and again that it's more than what you realize!"

"What monster? What are you talking about?"

Hearing X, Devon pointed and snarled loathingly, "_That_."

"X?" he asked incredulously.

"It tripped me!"

"Then why don't you look where you're going?" Wilton asked, uncertain why Devon was so upset.

X wheeled itself up to them.

"It's always hassling me, and it never lets up! You've seen it following me! There it is!" He pointed straight at X.

"I've also seen him follow others. As a matter of fact, he was in our meteorology department just this morning pestering meteorologists about the climate patterns in Hell," Wilton said with a chuckle. "I can only wonder who programmed him to do that. Aside from accidentally tripping over him, he can't really hurt anyone."

"First of all, _it_ is an _it_ not a _he_. It is not living. It is a machine that is out to get me! And I want it dismantled!"

"Why? Everyone likes X. He's kind of a…novelty."

"The novelty wore off a long time ago, Wilton. It's dangerous!"

Wilton laughed. "X? Dangerous? Just because you fell over him is no reason to call him dangerous."

"I didn't fall. It tripped me!"

"Are you trying to tell me that you're being bullied by a nine-inch robot?" Wilton asked dryly.

A few snickers erupted from the nearby scientists. They stopped immediately when Devon glared at them. He turned his fierce gaze on Wilton. "One of these days, you're going to see exactly what I'm talking about, and when you're lying face down in the dirt, I am going to stand over you and laugh." He turned on his heel and stormed out.

Wilton bit back his grin until Devon was safely out of earshot, and then he laughed. "X, you'd better leave him alone for a while," he advised the android.

"Please restate," X droned in a machine-like voice.

"Don't go near Devon," Wilton explained.

"Acknowledged," X answered and made a neat three-point turn to leave.

"He isn't really paranoid about X, is he?" Tanya asked, climbing out of the passenger-side of KARR.

"I wish I could say with certainty," Wilton answered, rubbing his chin with his thumb and forefinger.

"Exactly how smart is he?"

"Devon?"

"X."

"Aware enough to navigate his environment, but a very boring conversationalist," he said after a moment's thought. "Not intelligent enough to plot Devon's demise, certainly. As entertaining as X is, he is far from ever achieving human qualities."

KRKRKRKRKR

Devon brushed at his jacket, his fingers finding a tear at his elbow. He shed his the garment to take a better look at it. "Blast," he said angrily as he worried the ripped material. "I should have left that thing in the dumpster when I had the chance."

"Mr. Miles?"

"Now is not the best time to talk to me," he warned, walking past her without so much as looking up to see who had spoken.

Barbara reflexively stopped, startled by his abruptness. Even if he was in a bad mood, Devon Miles was at least polite. Out of the need to preserve her job, she was tempted to try later, but, between Antonia and Tanya, time was not a luxury. Steeling herself, she caught up with him again and stepped bravely in front of him.

Devon drew up short, tamping down his irritation. "Ms. Wood, unless it's a dire emergency-"

"It _is_ a dire emergency. Antonia Young is in prison for something that she didn't do," she insisted.

"Have you been talking to X?" he asked suspiciously.

"What? No, I've been talking to Antonia. I saw her this morning – in jail."

"If you're trying to make me pity her, it won't work. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

"Mr. Miles," she said, side-stepping to block him again. "I've been here for three years, and in that time, I've always done my job well, haven't I?"

"Yes," he conceded. "Your point?"

"My point is that I've always been loyal to this company. If I thought that Antonia was compromising Knight Industries, I would have said something."

He crossed his arms. "Are you worried about your job, Ms. Woods?"

"That's not what I meant," she said quickly. "I'm worried about Antonia's life. I know she's impulsive and a bit of a hot-head, but she's never done anything illegal. She was set up."

"And you have proof?"

"No. I'm asking you to help me find it."

Devon's eyebrows climbed so quickly they were nearly propelled off his forehead. "You're asking _me_ to help a woman who almost escaped with some of our most valuable secrets?"

"Don't you think if she had taken all that you said she did, that she'd be a little smarter than to be caught the way she was?" Barbara asked, her words somewhere between reasoning and pleading.

"I've seen smart people make stupid mistakes. It's nothing new," he answered. One person in particular jumped to memory, but he was not about to bring Wilton's name into the conversation. "Have you spoken to Mr. Knight about this?"

She glanced uneasily back at the hangar. "No, I haven't. I thought you might be more apt to listen."

His brow furrowed as he frowned. Usually, of the two, Wilton was considered to be more approachable. "I'm not."

"Can you tell me with absolute certainty that she is guilty?" Barbara asked. "Outside of finding the file, is there one shred of evidence that isn't circumstantial?"

"Having that file in her possession is more than enough evidence, and I would not call that circumstantial."

"But if she isn't the right person, then all your important secrets are still in danger. Are you willing to take that chance?" When Devondidn't answer immediately, she pressed, "I want to find the real thief just as badly as you…but if Antonia is guilty…I'll testify against her."

"You would testify against your own friend?" he countered doubtfully.

"I'm already staking my reputation on her as it is," Barbara said. "If I'm wrong, it would be the only thing I could do to make things right."

Devon eyed her. "If you had anything to do with the thefts, you're playing a dangerous game, Ms. Woods. You'll find yourself sharing the same cell as your friend."

"I know that," she said, lifting her chin. "I also know a few other things that you may not be aware of."

"Like what?"

Barbara stayed pointedly silent.

"I see," Devon said. He regarded her for a long moment. "Come with me," he ordered quietly as he continued on his path.

KRKRKRKRKR

Lonnie listened to the conversation from her place on the balcony extending from Wilton Knight's office. Keeping within the shadows, she was unnoticed by those below her. Tanya had complained on many occasions about Devon Miles, but this woman, Barbara, was an unknown. Lonnie's eyes narrowing, she turned and went back into the mansion.

KRKRKRKRKR

"That is the most amazing car I've ever seen," Tanya said, watching the black and gray sports car swerve around the road cones at a speed fast enough to cause the tires to squeal on the sharp turns. A short distance from the bleachers, on which she and Wilton Knight sat, were a group of men in lab jackets, writing notes on clipboards that they held.

"There is still a lot of work that needs to be done," Wilton said, but he still found himself unable to take his eyes off the car.

"KARR," Tanya said, trying out the name. She smirked at Wilton. "A sense of humor or pure accident?"

"Accident," Wilton confessed, watching the machine. "I had wanted it to have a name as powerful as it was, but once the acronym was discovered…" He shrugged.

As it rounded a turn toward a straight stretch, KARR accelerated on a collision course with a brick wall. Wilton sucked in a breath and held it. This is where the android had always failed. The molecular shell protected it from lasting damage, but this test was not to see how well the coating worked. It was to see how unstoppable KARR could be.

At the last possible second, the driverless car turned its prow to the left and veered around the wall.

"No!" Wilton exclaimed, jumping to his feet. He stepped down to the pavement and walked up to the white-attired group. "It's supposed to jump _over_ the wall! What is the point of using boosters if it keeps going around everything?"

"It's the self-preservation programming," a senior engineer, whose nametag read _Peterson _explained with a little exasperation. "If it's designed to protect itself first, it won't take a needless challenge."

"Then build some sort of exception for brick walls," Wilton told them. "Cover its camera. Tell it the wall is made of pillows! I don't care what you do. I want that car to fly!"

The scientists chorused a series of "yes sirs," but it sounded more like a united grumble.

Tanya waited until the technicians left to retrieve KARR. "Why would a car need to leap like that?" she asked curiously.

"Because, when all other ways are blocked, the only other way is up," he answered, "but I'll be damned if I wind up with a cowardly car."

"So a _thinking_ car isn't enough?" she teased.

"I would hardly say it _thinks_," he argued, not rising to the humor. "At least, not the way you or I think. It isn't self-aware."

"But it can assess the situation and react faster than a human," she reminded. "The world's only crash-less automobile. You could make a fortune!"

"It isn't for the market," he said.

Her smile wavered with surprise. "It isn't?"

"No."

There was something about his suddenly terse tone that prevented Tanya from pressing for an answer as to why, but it left her incredibly curious nonetheless. Why invest millions of dollars into a machine that wasn't going to be sold? "Oh," she finally said cheerfully, slipping her arm into Wilton's as they left the track. She made a mental note to use her listening devices more frequently.

KRKRKRKRKR

"It's your move," Wilton prompted Devon, who had sat motionless for an entire three minutes. Between the two straight-backed chairs was a small table with a wooden chess set, the pieces intermingled in defense and attack positions. It had become a nightly tradition to engage in a game of chess after dinner, a way of unwinding and a relaxed setting to discuss the day's events or future plans.

Devon blinked as if drawn from a hypnotic state. "Hmm?" he asked.

"Your move," Wilton repeated. He cocked his head as he regarded the other man curiously. "Devon, are you all right? You haven't said two words the entire evening." He shifted in his seat and rubbed his right knee.

Devon sat forward, studied the board, and slipped the knight behind Wilton's pawn defense. "Checkmate," he announced.

"What?!" Wilton exclaimed and turned the board, as if another angle might suddenly reveal a hidden move. He frowned and sat back in the chair. "Is it that you have a strange sense of irony or do you not know how to use any of the other pieces?"

"Never needed," Devon said. "You're always focused on the more obvious line of attack and overlook the knight every time."

"I never did like this game," Wilton groused and dropped his chin against his propped up fist.

"That's because you always lose," Devon retorted. He tugged his ear as his mood again turned pensive, and he leaned back in the chair.

"I wish you would tell me what is bothering you," Wilton said.

"Why would you think something is bothering me?" Devon asked, attempting to put a lilt of nonchalance to his voice.

Wilton pulled down exaggeratedly on his own earlobe. "It's a wonder your ears don't hang to your shoulders."

Devon rolled his eyes and folded his arms. "Contrary to what this country believes, American sarcasm _isn't_ charming."

"That's because we don't mean to be charming. We mean to be sarcastic." When Devon stayed stubbornly silent, Wilton knew enough not to press the issue. Instead, he changed the subject. "I met with the candidate today."

Devon's moroseness disappeared and was replaced by disapproval. "You didn't."

"I did," he insisted. "I think this is the one, Devon. He's perfect for the Foundation."

Devon opened his mouth to speak, and then he closed it, staring at Wilton. He rose from the chair and stepped behind it, bracing his hands against the back. He appeared to try to speak again, but he turned his back. Finally, he faced Wilton again, running his hands through his hair. He was clearly resisting the urge to pull out the strands by their roots. "Of all the…the…_idiotic_ things!" he exploded. "You're really intending to go through with this, aren't you?!"

"You knew that I was," Wilton said, confused by his friend's reaction.

"No. Nonononononono!" He pointed a finger at the other man. "You talked about it, but I _knew_ you were too smart a man to really follow through on such a hair-brained, adolescent, ill-planned idea. I knew it because you are the same man who came up with all of those ingenious ideas that have revolutionized the world." He sat back down in the chair and leaned forward. "I knew that a man who did that would never actually follow through with this Foundation nonsense!"

"There is no justice out there anymore, Devon," Wilton argued, his voice reasonable but intense. "I want to do something to aid society."

"Knight Industries has several charities – good charities. They give plenty of aid. There is no place for a vigilante and a crashless car. You're acting like he would be some…personal avenging angel." He paused. "What possible purpose could he even serve?" he asked, his temper interrupted by curiosity.

"Have you read the newspaper lately?" Wilton asked. "Crime is rampant. People are suffering. Criminals are getting off scot-free by a technicality only to go and hurt someone else."

Devon stifled a sigh. This was far from the first time he had been reminded of that. "No justice system is perfect, but I think you should remember that there are many more who do wind up in prison – and rightly so."

"There are too many who don't," Wilton argued, thumping his forefinger in emphasis on the arm of his chair. "Some even openly defy the law and they are protected – people too powerful to touch. A regular man can't go up against them and win, let alone bring them down."

"And you think someone driving around in that little car of yours has a better chance?" Devon asked skeptically.

"When backed by the Foundation, yes," Wilton answered with a satisfactory nod and sat back in his seat.

"I can see your American government appreciating such interference," Devon scoffed.

"You assume that the Foundation would flaunt itself like the Mafia."

Devon barked out a laugh. "The _Mafia_? You would compare your little vigilante group to the _Mafia_?"

Wilton glowered indignantly. Devon's haughty British tone had never ceased to infuriate him. "No, I am not," he said tersely. "It's more like…like _The Lone Ranger_."

"Wasn't that the idiot that ran around the desert in a Halloween mask and named his white horse _Silver_?"

"The horse wasn't named _Silver_ because of it's color. It was – oh, never mind!" Wilton snapped irritably. "Why do you always mock my ideas?"

"It always turns into an argument whenever you don't get your way, that's why," Devon countered readily, folding his arms. "Why do you even bother bringing up the Foundation in the first place? You know how I feel about it, and my opinion isn't going to change!"

"I was hoping that you would consider taking it over," Wilton answered heatedly.

Devon's jaw dropped in utter disbelief at the man's audacity. "Have you not heard one word I've said?!"

"You're _wrong_ this time, Devon," Wilton insisted, his fingers curling around the arms of the chair. "It's time for someone to step forward, and when KARR completes its final test in three days, there is going to be an operative ready for it."

"If you think I'm going to try and stop you, forget it," Devon said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. "Just keep me out of it."

"With pleasure," Wilton tersely responded, stiffly pushing himself up from his chair and limping from the room.

Devon just shook his head and looked toward the dying fire. As usual, his friend was charging head-first into uncharted territory and expected Devon to follow without question. How could it be that, after all these years, Wilton still had not learned that Devon drew lines that would not be crossed? Could Wilton not see that setting aside the laws that did not suit him to pursue criminals made him no better than the ones he was determined to capture? To arm a man with a nearly invincible car and turn him loose on the unsuspecting population screamed _disaster_. And who would be picking up the pieces when everything fell apart in Wilton's hands? Who risked his neck time and again to save his friends' own?

Devon internally winced. Himself, of course. He wasn't drawn into Wilton's problems. He charged into them, and he knew that unless he could derail his friend's one-track mind over this Foundation, inevitably, Devon would step in again, perhaps to the detriment of his freedom and, possibly, his life. This was far more than throwing a fist at a street thug. The potential consequences would be more disastrous and morally compromising than he had ever faced, which begged the question, was it Wilton or himself that was more deluded?

KRKRKRKRKR

Three days.

Tanya drummed her fingers on her dining table. The condominium so kindly financed by Cameron was luxuriously spacious, taking two floors of the building. Their shared love of living large had an insatiable appetite, and he had not put up the least fuss when she began to hint for a suitably plush base of operations.

Lonnie slid into the chair at her right, licking something from her thumb. "Your chef is absolutely amazing! I haven't tasted chocolate sauce like that since Paris!"

Tanya eyed the brunette with a hint of jealousy. Lonnie had the most incredible gift of being able to devour whatever she wanted while still remaining impossibly slender. Tanya had been on a diet since she could remember. The last thing she wanted to discuss was chocolate. "Why would _my_ chef be making _you_ chocolate sauce?" she asked, far from graciously.

Lonnie smirked and tossed her hair back. "Oh, because I asked him to," she said flippantly.

Tanya bit back a smart remark. It would only give into the rise that Lonnie had hoped to provoke from her. Though partners on the outside, both women had become bitter rivals for Cameron's affections. Lonnie did not appreciated having her role as the boss's lover usurped by an underling, and she had never forgiven Tanya. Tanya really could care less. With the Alpha-male's affections focused solely on herself, Tanya could ultimately destroy Lonnie, and Lonnie was not about to make the naive mistake of crossing her. "The Knight Automated Roving Robot will be ready in three days," she informed her co-conspirator.

"So soon? I thought it had failed its last test," Lonnie said doubtfully.

"He said it would be ready," Tanya said, tipping her hand at the sophisticated receiver. It was quite simple in design with no flashing lights or extra buttons. It picked up the signal from the bugs implanted in the mansion and it recorded the information onto a reel-to-reel. For further convenience, all of the components had been downsized to fit into a briefcase that could be easily carried. "He's determined to have it finished quickly in time for its driver. His rush will be to our benefit – and profit."

"He isn't still talking about that idiotic Foundation, is he?" Lonnie asked in amusement, the right corner of her mouth lifting into a smirk.

Tanya rolled her eyes. "You know Wilton."

"No, I don't," Lonnie said, leaning forward. "How well do you?"

Tanya could see the predatory gleam in Lonnie's dark eyes, and she knew that her 'friend' was just waiting for Tanya to slip up so that she could report any suspicion of infidelity back to Cameron. "Careful, Lonnie," she warned in a lowered voice as she closed the suitcase. "It's a game you won't win."

Lonnie's eyes darkened perceptively, but she stayed quiet. Her time would come. She had been in this game far longer than Tanya and knew that nothing, especially the pecking order, remained stable for long. Tanya's cockiness would be her downfall. Lonnie only had to wait for the right person to dethrone her. In the meantime, she would enjoy the immense profits that Tanya would bring by pulling off one of the most daring thefts that Lonnie had ever aided. The Knight Automated Roving Robot would bring, not thousands, but _millions_. The other designs Tanya had smuggled from the company paled by comparison. Yet Lonnie would not give this woman the credit that truly belonged to Luck and Fate. If only Tanya realized how inexperienced she truly was, she might survive in this business.

Lonnie smiled demurely at Tanya. "You're the boss," she deferred with a shrug.

For now.


	19. Chapter 19

"It sure is small."

Barbara glanced back at Antonia with disapproval as she led the other woman into her apartment. It was a suitable size for one person on a budget, and though it was not the newest, it was, at least, clean. "A jail cell is smaller."

The subtle threat was enough to silence the younger woman, who meekly acknowledged her limited resources by asking in a more polite voice, "Where do I sleep?"

"The couch is all I can offer," Barbara said, gesturing to the worn brown sofa that was centered in the living room.

Antonia dropped her small suitcase onto the cushion and then fell beside it with an enormous sigh. She tilted her head against the back of her seat and stared up at the ceiling. "You have no idea how awful it is in that place."

Out of deference to her friend's pale, drawn features, Barbara didn't mention that she had heard that statement five times in the past twenty minutes. "At least you're out," she offered, only belatedly realizing how trite it sounded. "And you'll stay out too," she added.

Antonia looked at her temporary roommate with less than the same confidence she had displayed when begging Barbara to prove her innocence. "It's Tanya. I know it."

"It doesn't matter what you know. It's what we can prove," Barbara said. She stepped in front of the seated woman so that Antonia could see her without having to lower her head. "That's why I need you to promise me that you'll stay in this apartment."

"That wasn't part of the bail hearing!" Antonia exclaimed, sitting upright. "I just had to stay in town!"

"I know exactly where you would go," Barbara said, "and I don't want you anywhere near her."

Antonia folded her arms as her lips turned downward into a pout. "And just how do you expect to clear me without help?"

"I have help," Barbara answered dismissively as she strolled into the kitchenette.

Antonia was not deterred, and she rose quickly from her seat to follow, her eyes narrowing. "I don't like the way you said that."

"Said what?" Barbara asked, searching the cabinets but giving no indication for the reason of her hunt.

"_I have help_," Antonia repeated in a high-pitched, sing-song voice.

"I do," Barbara returned, closing the cabinet door and facing her friend.

"Who?"

Barbara shrugged. "Just some help."

Antonia saw her friend shift her weight from her left to her right foot. She stepped closer to Barbara. "_Who_?" she repeated again.

Barbara looked around the kitchen and then mumbled something as she opened the refrigerator door.

Antonia closed it so quickly that she nearly caught the other woman's knee. "Who, Barbara?" she asked, her voice dropping.

"Well I didn't really have many options, did I? I couldn't afford the bail by myself."

"Not Tanya!" Antonia gasped.

"I'm not an idiot," Barbara said indignantly. "Devon Miles. Antonia…" Barbara quickly returned to the living room as her friend gathered her suitcase and started for the door. "Just where do you think you're going?"

"I was safer in prison," Antonia declared.

Barbara quickly bypassed her and bodily blocked the door. "Stop acting so childish and just listen for a minute."

Antonia's jaw clamped and she found an interesting spot on the door frame to watch with rapt fascination.

"I spoke to him the very next day, and I told him that you would never steal. I guaranteed your innocence."

"He's a pompous snob! Why were you even talking to him?" Antonia demanded, glaring at Barbara in contempt.

"Because you begged me to help you, and I did," Barbara snapped. "I didn't have any way of raising that kind of money for your bail! You're lucky that he was willing to listen to reason."

"And what happens as soon as Tanya flutters her eyes at him, huh? Then what?" Antonia demanded, placing her fists against her hips. "I don't trust him!"

"I don't exactly either, but there isn't a choice," Barbara countered, matching Antonia's stance with an identical one of her own. "Devon Miles is Wilton Knight's right-hand man. He's the only person with access to the information that can get you exonerated, but he can also put you away for a long time."

"If he has the information, then why am I still being charged?" Antonia argued.

"I didn't say that he has the information. I said that he has _access_. As soon as we know what to look for-"

"Good God, Barbara! You're dancing with the Devil!"

"If you have a better idea, I'm ready to hear it," Barbara sharply spoke.

Antonia closed her mouth as she wracked her brain. Her shoulders dropped and she conceded her defeat. "Devon Miles," she said dismally. "Of everyone in that place, _why him_?"

KRKRKRKRKR

Devon shook out his black umbrella and then brushed at the water spots on his tan trench coat as he stood beneath the overhang which protected the front doors of the Knight Mansion. He hated the rain. Like many, he had naively assumed that California would be free from such inconveniences, but he had been disappointed to learn that they had long periods of downpours once the months began to shift toward winter. The only concession was that the temperatures were a bit more comfortable than his native country, and he could dress with fewer layers of clothing. But, oh, that rain!

A repetitive ringing drew his attention to the Mercedes that had been parked not far from the front of the mansion. Rank hath its privileges, but in the downpour, even the short distance had him debating on the importance of taking that phone call. He had never actually wanted a car phone. Wilton had had it installed as a surprise for his birthday. Wilton had been so pleased at surprising the Englishman that Devon didn't have the heart to tell him that a phone was the last thing he wanted – not to mention that Wilton had missed Devon's birthday by over a month. Wilton had made the effort, and though he was a terrible gift-giver and had never once gotten the date right, it was the thought that counted. That is, until now when Devon found himself compelled to answer the phone in spite of the terrible weather.

With a curse, he did not waste time with the umbrella and instead ran back to his car. The handle gave way but the door did not open. With another curse, he pulled his keys from his pocket and squinted through the cold rain to insert the key into the lock. Without a moment's hesitation, he slipped into the dry shelter of the car and shut the door, the rain echoing loudly on the cloth roof of the convertible. He lifted the receiver, promising himself that the caller would pay dearly if it turned out to be Wilton urging him to rush back to the mansion to see the latest development with KARR. "Miles," he said curtly.

"Devon, it's Alistair," came a very British voice.

"Alistair? How did you get this number?" he asked, trying to remember when he had broken his own personal rule and leaked that he had a car phone.

"My friend gave it to me," came the dry reply.

Devon relaxed slightly, remembering the many connections of Alistair's 'friends'. "Of course. I should have known."

The line fell momentarily silent before Alistair said in a very serious voice, "You wanted me to pass on any updates I might receive from my friend concerning Garthe Knight."

The muscles bunched themselves in Devon's back. "What has your friend heard?" he asked gravely.

"Your suspicions were correct. He has truly started to make a name for himself. He was captured in France as head of a terrorist cell operating just outside of Paris."

Devon closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How bad?" he asked, dreading to hear the answer.

"It was a conspiracy, not an actual act," Alistair assured, but it brought Devon no comfort. "They were planning a bombing of a South American embassy."

"South America? What on earth for?"

"To make a name for themselves, I think. The details are rather sketchy, but it isn't the real news."

"Oh Lord," Devon sighed. "Go on."

"He escaped on his way to trial. The car taking him was abducted and found several miles away in the countryside. The officers had been killed execution-style."

"Meaning that he had outside help," Devon surmised.

"Precisely. He turned up about a month ago in a small area in South Africa about twenty kilometers southeast of the Botswana border. There's a small insurgence of rebels who consider themselves to be freedom fighters. The truth is that they're mercenaries."

"How are they financed?"

"Drugs and diamonds, mostly."

"Dare I ask how he found his way from France to South Africa?" Devon asked.

"I don't know – only that he did. My friend wouldn't have even seen him except that MI-6 has been keeping a close eye on that group. There have been rumors that they are preparing for something, but what, no one knows yet."

"If they are just a small faction…"

"As you said, Devon, small fish get bigger. Things are very unstable in that country, and a racial war isn't out of the question if the natives grow restless. If Britain was to go in there and crush them, the world would scream injustice, even though the leader has no intention of doing anything but put himself in power. Our American allies won't touch it. Trouble is just too easy to cause."

"Garthe would love to do it, too," Devon thought aloud. "I don't suppose there is anyway to interfere?"

"Not until something happens," Alistair said. "I am sorry, Devon. I wish that there was more I could do."

"You did what I asked," Devon said. "Thank you."

"I was merely passing information," Alistair deflected. "I don't envy you or Wilton Knight, either one."

They exchanged polite goodbyes, and Devon slowly returned the receiver to its cradle. South Africa. It would be just like Garth Knight to go to a place that was in such turmoil and stir up trouble. However, if MI-6 was watching so closely as to be able to identify Garthe, then they must be truly concerned about the power behind this group. Devon drummed his fingers as he stared unseeingly at the rain. Elizabeth might have financed his trip. Africa would be an excellent place to hide, and if Garthe had endeared himself to one of those rebel leaders, he would have also gained protection; at least, as much as one cutthroat can gain from another cutthroat.

It was a difficult decision, but Devon decided that it would be best to keep this information to himself. Despite the soundness of the source, the proof was too circumstantial for Wilton to accept, and it would hurt the man dearly. Regardless of the hard lessons that Wilton had learned, it was impossible to be certain that he would not simply fall back into his old pattern of blind stubbornness and denial. Devon also found himself hoping that Garthe might simply disappear and never become the threat that the Englishman feared would return. A man so corrupt and bitter could only be considered a danger; Devon had seen it in Garthe's eyes that night when Garthe had struck down his father. Devon was still unable to shake the uneasy feeling he had carried ever since.

A black shape emerged from the heavy precipitation, the distortion of water against the windshield of Devon's Mercedes hazing the other car to an unrecognizable entity until it was almost upon his car. Devon squinted, trying to make it out as it moved closer on what seemed to be a collision course. Surely it would stop. If Devon had seen that car, then the driver must have seen his own. Devon sat upright and gripped the steering wheel when he realized that, not only was the other car not slowing, it was accelerating. "Good God!" he exclaimed, knowing that it was too late to try and get the Mercedes out of the way. He scrambled over to the passenger side and opened the door. He dove out into the grass and the mud, rolling away from the car. He looked up in time to see the oncoming automobile veer at the last possible second and miss crushing the Mercedes by fractions of an inch. Brakes squealed and it made a lazy turn to park behind the Mercedes it had earlier charged.

A tinted window rolled down as Devon picked himself up out of the mud. Wilton looked apologetic. "Sorry, Devon. I didn't know you were in the car. Are you all right?"

"Am I…" Devon, soaked to the skin by water and mud, gaped at Wilton. "You could have killed me!" he shouted.

"I never would have hit the car," Wilton defended. "KARR is accident-proof."

"How is that supposed to compensate for an accident-_prone_ driver?!" Devon's voice was so loud that it strained his throat.

Wilton frowned. "Everyone is entitled to a few accidents, and they weren't my fault, especially when I didn't have KARR to prevent them." He brightened. "I was just taking KARR for a test drive. Want to come?"

If looks could kill, Devon would have struck his friend dead with his glare. "_Do_ _not…ever…ask me that…again_," he spoke through his teeth and stormed toward the mansion.

KRKRKRKRKR

The precipitation had abated for the night, and a light chill had settled in the breeze that rose and fell with no noticeable pattern. The stars were already shining brightly, now enjoying a greater longevity thanks to the lessening length of day. X, as usual, was proficient in astronomy and could easily identify the known constellations. That is, it would have if its camera ever once gazed up into the heavens. The android had no interest in the skies above its location; humans were much more fascinating. One human in particular piqued its curiosity, but why it had settled upon the most disagreeable person on the estate, X itself could only assume the answer was the challenge. Interacting with Devon Miles was as close as the android could come to a life-and-death situation. Were it human, it would describe its brushes with permanent dismantlement as an adrenaline rush. As a machine, X would only be capable of alluding to a peak in CPU cycles.

It had seen Devon enter the hangar not five minutes prior to X's venture outdoors. The hangar was a place of increasing intrigue now that the Knight Automated Roving Robot was nearing its first trial. X had been constantly shooed out of the large building to avoid a mishap, an unfair turn of events to the AI. After all, it had been months since that unfortunate power flux in the mainframe. It would be like holding an adult responsible for the actions of childhood. Computers matured much more quickly than humans, or so X believed. It had learned from its mistakes and would not repeat them – unlike humans whose follies were almost cyclic.

With no other choice, X had waited until the nighttime so that it could slip into the hangar with no interference. Only the most persistent scientists worked around the clock; the others were content to wait until the next morning to begin again. Most fortuitously, the workaholics were usually so engrossed in their projects that X could move about unnoticed.

One of multiple bay doors had been left open for easy access, which would take X immediately to the ground floor of the building. It rolled inside, the bright fluorescent lighting reflecting off its black body. Finding KARR was an easy task. KARR set at the center of the building with multiple leads running from consoles to its open hood. Screens reflected its dormant state, most likely powered down to conserve energy.

X wanted a closer look. It switched to a high gear, the pitch of its little motor rising with its speed. It slowed to a stop a mere inch from the car's prow, and then it reversed itself to take in the enormous body. X could not feel admiration, but mathematically speaking, the car's proportions were much greater than X's body. A primitive self-preservation program also reported what such a machine could do to X if provoked. It would be much harder to avoid the car than a human foot.

A cloth dropped on top of X's body, blinding its camera to its surroundings. It tried multiple directions to escape, but it only managed to tangle itself. It was picked up and the cover was pulled away. "Alright you little beast," Devon growled at it. "Tonight the games end. I am going to once and for all show Wilton _exactly_ what goes on in that processor of yours!"

X's wheels spun madly but uselessly. Devon's grip was firm. Its camera suddenly found things inverted, and X realized that Devon was carrying it by its front axle. "This is unnecessary," X argued.

"Oh believe me, it's necessary," Devon said. Walking up to the nearest technician, a recently hired graduate from CalTech named Ralph Semoni, Devon unceremoniously dumped X on top of the console, making sure to place X on its side so that it couldn't escape.

Semoni looked at X in surprise and then up at the very high-ranking member of Knight Industries. "Y-yes sir?" he stumbled, pushing the dark-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. They were a terrible match for his pale face and bright red hair. The thick lenses magnified his eyes, giving him an owlish appearance.

"I want you to tell me exactly what this thing is thinking."

"Sir?" he squeaked, picking up the black box and placing it wheels-first on the desk.

Devon picked up X when the robot tried to scoot away, and he quickly placed it back on its side. "You're a cybernetic technician, top of your class. Can you or can you not tell me what is taking place in his…_it's_ processor?"

"Yes, but why?" he asked. Dr. Semoni picked up X once more and turned it belly-first. He pressed a small button and a panel beneath X's camera opened, revealing a chip set. His eyes widened appreciatively. "I've never seen a design so sophisticated."

"You've been involved in KARR," Devon argued. "You can't tell me that…that… thing," he said disgustedly, pointing at X, "is more sophisticated than KARR."

"Well, if it isn't, it's close," Semoni said. He picked up a small flashlight and shined it into X's internal compartment. "Maybe we could use some of this technology for KARR."

Devon pulled X out of the man's hands. "You can't be serious! Give KARR X's sadistic personality?"

"X? Sadistic? He has a remote intelligence, and a curiosity, but I haven't seen anything that is _sadistic_," the technician argued. Semoni took X back and peered again into its compartment. "He seems pretty harmless to me."

Devon snatched X from him and held it in Semoni's face to emphasize his point. "_It _is an _it_, not a _he_! Why do you people keep humanizing it? Take this thing apart if you have to, but I want to know how it works!"

"Why is it so important?" the young man asked curiously.

"Because I want to prove that it _thinks_ like you and me, and it's been tormenting me for years!" Devon placed X on the desk roughly and then snatched it up again when X tried to escape. He shoved X into the man's arms.

"You've been letting a little robot torment you?" Semoni asked with the same skepticism as Wilton.

Devon gave the man a warning look. "Just look at it."

"All right," the technician agreed. "I don't suppose there are any copies of the schematics?"

"There might have been for the mainframe, but Wilton was merely tinkering when he put X into that body. There was no documentation as far as I know."

"Amazing," the young man murmured, now thoroughly enthralled by this new technology. "Do you think I could take a day or two and study him…uh…it more closely? I'd return it as soon as I was through."

"Oh no, keep it as _long_ as you like," Devon offered. "Just so that you bring me absolute proof that X is smarter than it lets on," he bargained. "And if you lose a few parts in the process…don't worry about it."

X's camera focused on Devon, but it said nothing.

"I don't think that will happen," Semoni assured, perplexed by Devon's unusual assurance. The assurance had seemed more like a subtle hint. "I'm very careful."

Devon smiled genially. "Don't be."

KRKRKRKR

Barbara sat at her desk, trying to look busy. A photo of an old family Labrador named Waldo was angled so that she could see the reflection of Lonnie in the polished glass. There was no point in trying to monitor Tanya. Her arm was always through Wilton Knight's, or so it seemed. Miles had given no indication of any further help for her friend, and though it angered her, she had no choice but to pursue the investigation herself. She had no proof that Lonnie was working with Tanya, but the two women seemed to get along well; anyone who liked Tanya Walker had to be just as shady. Unfortunately, "shadiness" did not stand up in a court of law.

As if her dark thoughts had conjured up the Black Magic Queen herself, Barbara quickly averted her eyes to the papers before her as Tanya strolled past her desk to Lonnie's. Barbara's eyes flickered to the frame, her head lowered so that the two women would not see her straining to guess their whispered conversation. Whatever it was seemed to be quite important because Lonnie momentarily stiffened and then forced herself to relax and smile and nod as if they had exchanged mere pleasantries. Tanya left just as casually, and then, after a few moments, Lonnie rose from her seat. Barbara watched with her peripheral vision as the brunette strolled out of the office, and then Barbara hastily followed.

Because the mansion was also a home, there were strict rules of where employees were allowed to venture and where they would be fired if they ever went. Initially, when Barbara saw Lonnie slip past the stairway and move quickly into the rear of the mansion, Barbara hesitated. Checking carefully around her, she bit down on her lip and then traced Lonnie's path.

The hair stood on the back of Barbara's neck as she circled behind the stairs and crept down the hallway, slinking along the walls as she listened in all directions. Muted voices came from the very end, and she neared as close as she dared, until she was forced to press her ear against the closed door to hear.

"He keeps the schematics in a safe in the bottom drawer of his desk," Tanya informed the brunette proudly. "If we have more time, I'm sure I can get the combination from him."

"Not needed," Lonnie assured. "We have this." She reached into the pocket of her lilac dress and withdrew a tiny device no bigger than the size of a quarter. "This will sync the tumblers. It doesn't matter what combination it is." She lowered her hand. "The question is whether the KARR is ready to be picked up."

"According to one of the technicians, it still has some minor defects," Tanya admitted, albeit reluctantly.

"If it is drivable, we should take it tonight."

"Tonight?! I can't deliver a car with flaws in it to Zachary!"

Lonnie bristled. "_We_ are delivering the product as promised. Your reports on Miles' suspicions say that it's getting too dangerous to wait. With the data we already have of some of the other projects, and the KARR itself, we will have more than enough to cut and run. Tonight is the only chance we have where both Knight and Miles will be gone to that charity function. We can take advantage of the KARR relocation to their off-site laboratory."

"I had everything set perfectly for Antonia to take the fall," Tanya argued.

"You also isolated yourself from the other secretaries," Lonnie hissed angrily. "The goal was to keep a _low_ profile. That's how we operate."

"Well I'm changing that," Tanya sniffed. "We're going for bigger prey. In a few more weeks, I could have Wilton Knight eating out of my hand." She polished her nails on her shirt and eyed them. "He's just like a little boy looking for approval – my approval."

"Does 'Zachary' know about this little game you're playing?" she asked, folding her arms.

Tanya's eyes narrowed, but before she could argue, the door was pushed open and Barbara went sprawling onto the floor, unconscious. Behind her a woman in a maid's uniform stood with a metal baton in her hand. She pressed a small button on it, causing the baton to collapse, and she placed it into the pocket of her apron.

"Who is that?" Lonnie demanded.

"Barbara," Tanya said with distaste. "She's the friend of the one I sabotaged."

"I don't suppose it occurred to either of you to check your surroundings before you started talking," the maid said tersely.

"Now we don't _have _a choice," Lonnie snarled at Tanya. "Once we make her disappear, there will be an investigation. We leave tonight."

"I'll contact Zachary," Tanya said.

"Wrong," Lonnie said, catching the blonde's arm. "_I_ will contact _Mr. Cameron_. Susan dispose of her. Got it?"

Tanya yanked her arm from Lonnie's grasp. "Be careful, Lonnie. Don't forget who organized this. Zachary won't."

The two women glared at each other.

"Hey, can we get a move on?" Susan demanded. "Let's not forget why we're here – or the profit we're going to get for this."

"Do you really want to go there?" Tanya demanded in a low hiss.

Lonnie's eyes were slits. "We'll deal with this later," she said and stooped down to help Susan pick up the body. "Where are we going to hide her?"

"There's a basement where we can put her," Susan said. "We'll pick her up tonight along with the rest of the 'goods'."


End file.
